


Under Hill, Under Sky

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Gore, M/M, Monsters, Seelie Court, Shameless Big Bang, Unseelie Court, i love it, why are those actual tags?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exiled from his father's court of goblins and monsters, Mickey lives alone in the woods, until he stumbles upon Ian, an injured knight belonging to the Seelie Court (the bright immortals who are his father's worst enemies).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Hill, Under Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Davina requested soldier!Ian being nursed back to health by farmer!Mickey. As usual, this is almost none of those things. :) Hope you like it anyway, dear! (And I promise, Mickey in overalls is coming. Just not here.)
> 
> Thanks to Becky and Liz for listening to me cry about writing a lot, to Tanya for being an excellent mod, and to R and K for betaing despite the fact they don't watch Shameless or write fic. True friendship, right there. <3
> 
> Check out [the incredible video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLi_fWDpyQU/), by AnotherGallavichLove! It's all of my favorite things ever. <3

If it weren’t for the rabbit, Mickey wouldn’t have found him at all.

He doesn’t really need to eat, not the way that humans do. But he hunts a little now and then, anyway. To fill the empty hours, to keep himself amused. The woods are lonely, and he likes it that way. But it does get boring after a while.

The stone from his sling misses its mark and startles the rabbit into the brush. Mickey swears and takes off after it, scrabbling in his pocket for another pebble. Maybe if he’s fast enough, he can just catch it and snap its neck.

The grasses and scrub give way in front of him as he follows the sounds of the rabbit, and there, lying on the ground, half hidden by the green leaves, is a man.

No, Mickey corrects himself, catching a glimpse of shining armor. A knight.

He’s not dead. Mickey would have been able to feel it. But he’s not sleeping, either. Passed out, maybe, after crawling away from some fight.

The knight also isn’t completely human. Something in the high set of his cheekbones, the flame of his hair, gives it away. And the way his armor is shining with red-gold light, like it’s reflecting some internal fire.

Mickey’s father would be pleased to get his hands on a knight of the Seelie Court. Good for bargaining, or to torture. A prize like that might even be enough to win Mickey back his rank, his honor, his place at his father’s side.

Not if the knight is injured, though. His father will want him aware, and mostly undamaged. More fun that way. He’ll have to heal first, and Mickey can watch him, make sure he doesn’t run.

Mickey stows his sling in his belt and leans down to clear the leaves and grass away from the knight’s body. There’s an unsheathed sword on the ground next to him, like he’d gripped it in his hand even after he fell.

Mickey stops and stares at it uncertainly. The sight of the steel and glass sword might enrage his father. Or he might take delight in breaking it, ruining it. No way to be sure—it’ll depend on his mood, something Mickey has never been able to predict.

Better to leave it for now. Mickey squats down close to the knight and holds one hand over the shining blade.

He doesn’t touch it—it would probably burn him. But he thinks of scum, of dust and decay creeping over the surface of the bright metal. Rust and dirt building up on it, like a scab. Dulling it. Hiding it.

He pulls his hand away and looks with satisfaction at the half-buried sword, like an ancient relic. Even the knight probably wouldn’t be able to see what it actually is. Only Mickey can feel the traces of his own magic.

It was a beautiful blade, though. Once he’s gotten rid of the knight, maybe he’ll come back for it and keep it for himself. No one else has to know he found it, not even his father.

The knight stirs uneasily on the ground, jerking Mickey out of his pleasantly possessive daydream. Mickey grimaces. Like the sword, the knight’s armor is probably going to burn him. But he doesn’t have a choice. Trying to take it off him would be even worse.

Shaking his head, Mickey leans over the knight and pulls his arms up, tipping his limp body forward until he’s draped over Mickey’s shoulder. Sure enough, the metal bites and then sticks, like touching a wet finger against ice. Mickey’s leather tunic has no sleeves, so it doesn’t offer much protection.

Mickey stands and bears up under the solid weight of the unconscious knight, hoisting him without much difficulty. At least the walk to the cave he’s been sleeping in is short. Whatever skin he loses to the armor will grow back.

The knight lets out a groan as Mickey begins to walk, his head knocking against Mickey’s back, but he doesn’t wake—not entirely.

Mickey can make his way through the woods almost unseen when he wants. Even the awkward burden of the Seelie knight on his shoulder doesn’t change that. The bushes and brambles try to trip him up, but Mickey slips lightly around them all, and soon he’s standing at the mouth of the cave. He ducks his head under the rocky overhang, but accidentally bangs the knight’s legs against the stone, with an unpleasant sound of scraping metal.

The knight groans again, and Mickey wishes he’d hit the man’s head instead. At least it would have bought him some more time. As it is, Mickey guesses he has less than ten minutes before the knight is awake and asking hard-to-answer questions.

Mickey dumps him on the ground—none too careful with his head this time—and quickly turns his back and sits down cross-legged, one hand up against his forehead like he’s thinking. Actually, he’s doing his best to pull the same kind of trick he did on the sword—dimming his eyes to a dull human shade of blue, hiding the raw burns from the knight’s armor, and dirtying up his skin with a human-appropriate level of grime.

The transformation is harder than he’d hoped. He’s used to shifting between the almost-human shape from his mother’s side and the more monstrous Unseelie one that his father preferred, but this halfway shape is new and uncomfortable. It itches.

But he’s going to have to get used to it. One glimpse at his other form, and the knight will never believe he’s anything but Unseelie scum.

For good measure, Mickey reaches down and rubs his palms and knuckles against the dirty floor of the cave, covering them in filth and scraping them up enough to bring a trace of blood that quickly scabs over. Nothing like visible wounds to evoke the specter of human mortality.

Behind him, the knight stirs and moans. Mickey stands up and walks over to him, then kneels down by his head.

“Where—” the knight mumbles. “Wh—what happened?” His eyes blink open, then narrow again with pain as whatever head wound he has makes itself known. If Mickey had ever doubted the knight was one of the Daoine Sidhe, he doesn’t anymore. The emerald-green eyes may as well be a brand of ownership.

“I found you,” Mickey says, then stops. His voice is rusty with disuse, and he tries to clear his throat without being too obvious. “In the woods. Looked like you’d been in a fight.” He keeps his face very slack and stupid, trying to look as much like a human as he can.

“No,” the knight finally mumbles, letting his head fall back to the ground and closing his eyes—trying to hide them, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the pain getting to him.

“Then what was it? Thieves?” Mickey asks. Equal odds the knight will lie just to be safe, but if he doesn’t, Mickey will know how many of his father’s creatures are nearby.

The knight grimaces and turns his face away. Either his wound is a lot worse than Mickey expected, or he just can’t think of a good lie. Mickey reaches out to shake him, but before he can touch him, the knight shivers a little and then goes limp. Mickey looks down at him in surprise. That doesn’t seem right. If he was healed enough to talk, then he should have been healed enough to stay awake.

Mickey leans in closer and touches the knight’s head, searching under the bright hair for a bump or a half-healed gash.

His fingers come away wet and red.

“Fuck!”

Even just in the time since Mickey found him, the knight should have stopped bleeding from any wound, no matter how deep.

Unless, despite the armor, despite the sword, despite the eyes, despite every sign to the contrary, the knight is somehow human.

It doesn’t seem possible. No king or queen in either court would take a human into their service, outfit him, give him a sword, and send him out to fight the Daoine Sidhe. It would be suicide.

Mickey rocks back on his heels, staring with dismay and confusion at the pale, sickly face.

If he’s human, then Mickey’s father will have no use for him, no matter how pretty his gear is. Mickey should just let him bleed out here, quietly. Mortal lives are so short. What’s the difference?

And yet . . .

Mickey rubs his mouth nervously, thinking. If the knight’s body isn’t healing quickly enough to keep him from bleeding, what should he do? Will soaking up the blood help? Or make it worse? Should he wash it away?

There’s a river a few hundred feet away from the cave—part of the reason Mickey chose it. He grabs the battered helmet he uses as a bucket and, throwing a last worried look at the pale knight, he ducks outside and heads for the river.

Outside, a crow is perched in a dead yew tree, watching him with beady eyes. Even in his rush, Mickey gives it nod. It cocks its head and then flaps away. Not a good sign.

By the river, Mickey kneels to fill the helmet. As soon as he’s on his knees, two cold scaly hands wrap around his throat from behind, lifting him up into the air like he’s no heavier than a child.

Of course, Mickey always was the smallest of his brothers. It is Ignatius who has him by the throat—somehow he can tell, even without looking.

“Didn’t go far, didja, Mick?” his brother says, through a mouthful of teeth.

Mickey says nothing. He can’t anyway, not with his air cut off by Iggy’s grip.

“He’s not too happy with you, you know.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, reaches up, and peels Iggy’s fingers off, one by one, snapping the last one for good measure.

Iggy howls and drops him, then stands there with his finger in his mouth. “The fuck, Mick?!”

Shaking his head, Mickey climbs to his feet. The blood is rushing back to his head, making him dizzy, but he tries not to show it.

“Telling me shit I already know,” Mickey grumbles. “Spit it out, Iggy. He send you here for something? Or did you just miss my face?”

Iggy glowers, still nursing his finger with a wounded expression. “Not that lily-white flower face, anyway,” he mutters. “The fuck you going around like that for, Mickey? Was he right about you after all?”

Rage in his stomach, boiling up. “Yeah,” Mickey spits. “Guess he was.”

Iggy looks up at him sharply. “Yeah?”

Mickey says nothing. Lets the red welts he can feel slowly fading on his neck speak for themselves.

“And the other stuff?” Iggy says, but he doesn’t sound angry. More . . . worried. His eyes are wide and pleading. Iggy’s always looked up to him more than an older brother should.

“Probably,” Mickey says recklessly. Who fucking knows what his father’s accused him of since he was thrown out? But what does it matter, anyway.

He looks down and spots the helmet at his feet, dropped there when Iggy had grabbed him. Shit. The knight. Probably bleeding to death while he stands here screwing around.

“He send you here, Iggy?” Mickey snaps. “What does he want? Spit it out. I ain’t got all day.”

“No,” Iggy says. His downcast expression sits poorly on a face better suited to snarling.

“Oh, for the love of shit,” Mickey says. “You just missed me, huh?” He can’t stop the surge of fondness that goes through him. His dumb brother.

Iggy’s silent for a second, and then—“Thought maybe you’d come back now. Tell him you were sorry and come back.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says after a second. “Can’t, though.”

“Guess not,” Iggy says. They stand awkwardly for a second. Mickey looks at the helmet again.

“Hey, Iggy?” he says. “Don’t tell him where you found me. All right? It ain’t gonna end good if you do.”

“Yeah,” Iggy says listlessly. “Bye, Mick.” And he’s gone, melted into the shadow of the trees like he was never there at all.

Mickey lets out a breath. He doesn’t really know how long it’s been since the last time he saw Iggy. More than a couple seasons. It’s unsettling, two strange events—the knight and his brother—happening one right after the other like this. He shakes his head, pushing the thought down. Can’t do anything about Iggy, or what Iggy decides to tell his father.

Which just leaves him with the other strange event, currently bleeding all over his cave.

Mickey bends down to pick up the helmet and fills it to the brim, then takes off at the quickest walk he can manage without slopping water everywhere.

On the way back, he all but convinces himself that the knight’s already dead. All things considered, it might be for the best. But his fears are unfounded—if anything, the knight looks a little less pale than when Mickey left. He’s breathing a little more steadily too, Mickey thinks. Maybe.

Looking around, Mickey realizes he doesn’t have anything to clean the wound with. “Shit,” he says. He leans the helmet against the wall of the cave and ducks back outside. There’s some soft moss growing on the hillside above, so he tears it up and brings it inside.

When he dunks the moss inside the helmet, it soaks up the water better than he was expecting. He grins at his success, then realizes he has no idea what to do next. The water drips from the moss onto the dirt floor as Mickey stares uncertainly at the knight.

“How hard could it be?” he mutters and squats down. He reaches out with his free hand and tips the knight’s head so the side with the gash is facing him. Even from here, he can see it’s still bleeding, albeit sluggishly. His fingers tentatively part the knight’s blood-encrusted hair, and then he swipes the moss haltingly across the open wound.

As the cool water trickles across his scalp, the knight’s eyes flicker open again, and he squints blearily up at Mickey. “The fuck are you doing?” he whispers.

Mickey, embarrassed at being caught, presses his lips together and says nothing, just keeps cleaning the wound. As he wipes the thicker blood away, fresh blood wells up to replace it. But less than before. Maybe.

“Lot of blood,” Mickey says after a second. The moss is soaked, and the water in the helmet is a light pink now. The knight winces, tilting his head away from Mickey’s hand and closing his eyes again.

“Don’t,” he mutters, and Mickey stops.

“I wanna cover it, but I don’t have anything,” Mickey says after a second, watching a little trickle of blood make its way down the side of the knight’s face. Mickey reaches out and wipes it away, and the knight flinches.

“Just go away,” he says.

Mickey grimaces. “Can’t. Live here.” The knight ignores him, or maybe he’s passed out again. Mickey bites his lip uncertainly, then finally stands and takes the bloody moss and the helmet outside again. He kicks a little hole in the dirt and drops the moss in there, then covers it up. He hopes it’ll be enough to keep anything blood-hungry away.

When he goes back inside, Mickey crouches down beside the knight and looks at his drawn face. His skin has a worrying gray tinge underneath now. If he were human, Mickey would be certain he was dead. But he hasn’t felt or heard it, that silent final exhale, the whisper of a mortal soul leaving its body.

But if the knight is one of the Daoine Sidhe, why isn’t he healing?

Blood is trickling over the edges of the wound now, but cleaning it seems to have made things worse, so Mickey leaves it alone. What he really needs is a clean cloth, to do the work of keeping the knight’s blood on the inside, where it belongs.

Mickey agonizes for a few more seconds, but the conclusion is forgone.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he mutters to the knight, who, judging from his face, couldn’t even if he wanted to.

There are a few houses within a mile or two of the cave: people who work the fields in the summer and autumn. They’ll have something he can steal, something to stop the blood.

Mickey shifts into his other form. It’s faster and doesn’t tire as easily, besides blending in with the forest better. Still, the feeling as it settles on him is like being covered in a thin film of pond scum. His face and limbs feel deadened.

It’s funny—until he was exiled from his father’s court, he used to wear this shape almost all the time. His father didn’t like to see his other face. Didn’t like to see the eyes of Mickey’s mother staring back at him. So the movements come back to him easily. Soon he’s ducking and weaving through the trees at a run, nothing but a dark flicker in the dimming light of the afternoon.

It’s nice to run again; Mickey’s been getting sluggish. He may not miss being under his father’s watchful eye day and night, but he misses the Wild Hunt. This isn’t the same, running in the quiet woods on his own. But it’s still nice. The wind is cool and fresh against his skin, and he breathes it in deeply and steadily. Doesn’t think about the knight, or his blood in the water. Just breathes.

The trees finally begin to thin, and the first of the houses peeks into view on the far edge of the trees. Mickey slows to a jog, passing from shadow to shadow.

If he was with the Hunt, they’d be looking for unwary humans: travelers or little children too young to know better, down by the streams and pools. Something they could grab and toy with for a while, before turning it loose or taking it back to court for his father’s enjoyment. But now, Mickey has his eye on a different prize.

There—draped over the low bushes by the shallows of the stream. Cloth, rough and dark, but good enough for his needs. Mickey looks around for humans, but he sees and hears nothing. Silently, he passes by the bushes and swipes one of the garments. It’s still a little wet, but he bundles it up and tucks it awkwardly under one arm.

Touching anything coarse and mortal always seems to weaken him to some extent, especially in his lower form. It’s farther from human, and it seems to object to such close interaction. Still, when he starts running again, he manages to move at a decent pace.

A part of him fears that, even though he’s only been gone an hour at most, he’ll be coming back to a corpse. Or Iggy and a crew of the others pawing their way through everything, having taken his prize back to court for themselves. Mickey scowls and puts on an extra burst of speed, even though it makes the leaves and branches around him rustle as he passes.

Finally, the mouth of the cave looms up ahead, and Mickey halts, breathing hard. He listens with every fiber of his being for an enemy or a friend. For anyone or anything.

The only sound is the knight’s labored breathing.

Something in Mickey eases, and he walks the rest of the way, shifting into his human shape and unrolling the fabric as he goes.

The knight doesn’t stir when Mickey ducks back inside. His face is grayer. But he’s still breathing. His heart is still beating.

Mickey kneels down beside him. He’s never had to cover a wound before, but it seems simple enough. He spreads the cloth out in front of him, then rips off a big piece of it and a couple of thin strips. Then he folds the one into a square and presses it, as gently as he can, against the bloody gash. The knight doesn’t move, which isn’t good, but also makes Mickey’s task easier. Holding the cloth in place, he wraps first one strip, then the other around the knight’s head, tugging them tight to make sure they won’t slip. He leans back on his heels to examine his work.

Well, at least he can’t see the blood anymore. That alone is enough to make him feel better, regardless of how much it does or doesn’t help the knight.

Mickey sits and stares at him for a few more moments, unsure of what to do next.

The armor. It can’t be comfortable, lying with the metal digging into his flesh. Mickey doesn’t have much experience with armor, but the he manages to figure out the straps and buckles easily enough, and wrestles the knight free, piece by piece. Underneath, he’s clad in a fine white shirt and green breeches—much finer cloth than what Mickey had stolen—but they’re sweat-soaked and filthy.

Mickey’s relieved to find no other wounds on the knight’s body. He has a knife in a sheath on his belt and a small leather pouch that Mickey pulls open and searches. A few coins and a flint—both strange things for a knight of the Daoine Sidhe to be carrying.

Mickey notices he’s being watched through half-shuttered eyes. All the movement has roused the knight, if only a little.

“Water?” the knight whispers, and now that he’s looking, Mickey can see that his lips are dry and cracked.

Mickey nods. The knight’s eyes drift shut again.

Back at the river, Mickey rinses the helmet to be sure there’s no blood left inside, then fills it and takes off running back through the woods.

He’s never had to give water to another creature, let alone one who can’t sit up or move or sip. “Hey,” he says to the knight. Then a little louder. “Hey. Can you drink this?” He gestures toward the helmet. Nothing.

Mickey cups a little water in his hand and lets it trickle down over the knight’s lips. At first, nothing. Then his mouth opens a little, and he swallows.

“More?” the knight whispers, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Could do that, if you’d sit up,” he says. But the knight is silent. So Mickey does it again, trickling enough into his mouth that he swallows, but not so much that he chokes or coughs. Finally the knight lets out a little sigh and turns his head away. His color is better.

Night is almost fully fallen outside now, just a hint of red light still visible through the trees. Mickey leans the half-empty helmet against the wall of the cave, so the knight won’t knock it over accidentally. There’s no more he can do for now, and he finds himself a little hungry. All the running back and forth, probably.

A rush of bats flying outside brings a smile to his face. He shifts into his Unseelie form again and swarms up a tree outside. One arm shoots out, as speedy as the bats.

He comes away with one gripped tight in his hand, and draws it close to his face. It squeaks at him, outraged, and he grins and snaps its neck, the bite-size death rushing through him all sweet and tasty.

He munches on the little corpse as he climbs one-handed down the tree. Eating flesh doesn’t do too much for his body, but it seems wasteful to just leave it lying around.

Come to think of it, when the knight wakes, he’s going to need nourishment, and raw bat is almost certainly not going to suffice. Taking care of a wounded, possibly mortal creature is turning out to be more trouble than it might be worth.

It’s not too late. He could drag the knight out into the woods, back where he found him, and leave him there. Wounded, he’s not strong enough to run or fight if a hungry animal comes upon him. Or the Hunt.

Mickey imagines it for moment—the knight opening his eyes as something hungry comes sniffing around. Realizing that Mickey is gone. Trying to stand, or strike out, and falling back to the ground. Mickey’s stomach turns over.

No. There’s no real harm in keeping him alive awhile longer. Long enough to see if maybe Mickey can use him to buy his way back into the court, maybe.

Or, if that fails, maybe he can take the knight to the Seelie Court for ransom. The knight was carrying a Seelie blade, so he must be of some value to them. Either way, letting him die now would be a waste.

Food, though, is still a problem. He’ll need something a mortal can eat, and cooking wasn’t much of an encouraged skill, growing up in the Unseelie Court.

It’s not something he can solve in the dark, though. The knight’s sleeping, and Mickey’s inclined to do the same. It’s been a strange day. He’s not sorry to see the end of it.

The cave is small. When Mickey lies down, he can hear the steady whisper of the knight’s breathing close beside him, and after a while, it lulls him to sleep.

 

When he opens his eyes, the knight is staring back at him blearily.

“Where am I?” the knight asks. He looks more awake than yesterday, but that’s not saying much.

“Safe,” Mickey says. “I found you, remember?”

“No,” the knight mutters, his eyes closing again briefly. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?” Mickey says doubtfully.

“Well, not much,” the knight says. He swallows, his throat sounding dry and sticky. “Do you have any water?”

Mickey sits up and stretches, then goes to get the helmet where it’s leaning against the side of the cave. When he comes back, he pauses, uncertain. It was one thing to feed water to the knight when he was all but unconscious. With him awake, it seems . . . awkward.

He thrusts the helmet at the knight, who reaches out and takes it with trembling hands, spilling half or more.

“I’m sorry,” the knight mumbles, and Mickey reaches out to steady the edge, helping the him tip it forward enough to drink.

The knight makes a face—the water must be warm and metal-tinged by now—but he drinks it down all the same.

“What do they call you?” Mickey asks as the knight lowers his head back to the ground, eyes closed. Even the slightest movements seem to drain him.

The knight gives a bitter little smile. “What do they call me? Oh, all kinds of things.” He stops. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Ian. My name is Ian.”

Mickey tries not to flinch. However the knight came to wield a Seelie blade, it’s clear now that he is not one of them. Giving away his true name unasked to a stranger? No Daoine Sidhe would be so foolish.

“And your name?” Ian asks him, managing to open his eyes. “So I know who to thank, for saving my life.”

“You weren’t hurt that bad,” Mickey says. He didn’t—it wasn’t . . . Well, he hadn’t exactly been acting from some excess of goodwill. He’d saved Ian’s life the same way someone might save a pretty trinket they found lying in a muddy pool: with an eye out for their own benefit.

“I know wounds,” Ian says. “And I can tell, this must have bled for hours.”

Mickey shrugs. Ian has a trace of a smile on his face, and it’s making him uncomfortable.

“Ah, a very humble rescuer,” Ian says, and his voice is a little teasing. “And what else can I call you, besides that?”

Well, it’s a better question than his name, at least.

“You can call me ‘my lord,’” he says. “Or else you can call me Mickey.”

“Lord Mickey it is,” the knight mutters, tipping his head back again, eyes closed. The smile is still there, though. “A true hero.”

Mickey swallows. “Do you know who you were fighting?” he asks. “Or if they’ll be coming after you? Should we be prepared for company?”

Ian frowns. “I’m not sure,” he says after a few seconds. “I’m not sure what happened. I remember—I remember riding out from the hill. I remember . . .” He trails off, looking lost.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey says. He doesn’t even think Ian is feigning it. He genuinely seems to not know what happened to him. Which is disturbing, and also another count against him being one of the Daoine Sidhe. No immortal memory could be stolen so easily, by wound or by magic.

“I need to know,” Ian mutters, eyes still shut. “Who—”

“You’re a knight,” Mickey says. “Figures you’ve got enemies somewhere, or what’s the point of all that shiny armor?”

“I guess,” Ian mutters, distracted, like he’s still trying to remember. “I’m sorry, I just . . . my head.” He’s pale and drained, as if even sitting up and talking for a few minutes has totally sapped what little strength the night’s sleep had given him.

“You should rest,” Mickey says. “Get more sleep. Do you need more water? Or some food?”

Ian’s pale face takes on a greenish tinge. “No, no food,” he says hastily. “But—thank you.” He manages to open his eyes, squinting at Mickey, and almost smiles. “Truly. Thank you. I would be dead without you.”

Mickey has no idea what to say to that. So he says nothing.

 

Ian might not want food, but Mickey does. Mostly, though, he doesn’t want to stay in the cave any longer.

It’s nice, moving quietly through the woods, the birds and insects singing softly around him. As part of the Hunt, he had spent a lot of time in the forest, but none of it had been quiet.

He finally gets the rabbit, or maybe one of its friends. Either way, it’ll be enough food to last them for the next day or two.

When he heads back toward the cave, he can already tell that Ian is awake and moving around, which is surprising enough. Then he steps inside.

“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” he says to Ian, who looks up at him all wide-eyed, like a cuckold startled mid-thrust by the wronged husband. He’s managed to get on one sleeve of his armor, and now is trying to fasten a grieve to his leg, without much success.

“I—well, it just seemed like I’d been enough trouble already, and I—” Ian mumbles, eventually trailing off under Mickey’s flat gaze. The cave is silent for a moment.

“That so?” Mickey says. “Think you’re going to get far like that?” He gestures to Ian as a whole: his still-bandaged (and possibly still bleeding) head, his discombobulated armor, his sickly pallor and shaking limbs. “I mean, it’s not like you’re the very image of an easy target.”

Ian looks down at the floor of the cave, sheepish.

“Being as I dragged your sorry carcass here on my back like a side of meat, how about we say I decide when you’re ready to drag yourself back out again?” Mickey says.

“That’s . . . probably fair,” Ian says. Good. Now Mickey can be sure Ian won’t try leaving before he has a chance to take him to his father. And he won’t be ending up dead in a ditch somewhere, after all of Mickey’s hard work keeping him alive.

Speaking of which . . .

“Take that shit off and help me make a fire so I can roast this,” Mickey says, hoisting the rabbit in the air. Ian sighs and starts to work on getting the armor back off again. That’s kind of refreshing. No one in his father’s court ever followed any of his orders without grumbling and whining for at least a few minutes.

In the end, Ian does as much of the fire-building and skewering and roasting as Mickey, since he seems to have a better idea of what he’s doing. Luckily, it can all be done from a sitting position. He even sends Mickey back out into the woods to find some herbs for seasoning.

The smell of the roasting meat is already filling the air by the time Mickey comes back.

“You sure we need this shit?” he asks, holding up the leaves.

 “It’ll be good,” Ian says, and Mickey shrugs, handing them over.

“What, you don’t trust my cooking skills?” Ian demands, jokingly.

“Hey, I know for a fact they’re better than mine,” Mickey says.

Ian turns out to be right, though. It’s the best rabbit Mickey can remember having. But Ian only manages to choke down a little.

“What, did you poison it?” Mickey asks him. Ian manages to smile, but he looks pale.

“I don’t even remember the last time I ate something,” he says, “so you’d think I’d be starving. But somehow I don’t think I can get anymore of this down.”

That’s . . . odd. It could be the hit to the head. Or it could be that he’s not a human, and he doesn’t need the food as much as he should. But if that’s the reason, Ian shouldn’t be so confused about it.

Mickey shakes his head. He’s beginning to wonder if even _Ian_ knows whether he’s mortal or not.

 

“So, how do you want to do this?” Ian asks.

It was one thing to carry Ian when he was unconscious, but it’s different when Ian is awake. Mickey stands over him awkwardly for a second.

“Maybe I could try to walk there, and you could just help me? Steady me when it gets hard?” Ian says.

“We can try it, I guess,” Mickey says. They both look uncertainly down at Ian’s legs, then Mickey offers him his hand. Ian grips it firmly, and between the two of them, they manage to haul him to his feet. He stands, shaking like a leaf, with Mickey’s hand under his elbow. All the color drains from his face, leaving it the gray-white shade of rotten milk.

“I’m not sure—” he gasps, as his trembling intensifies.

Mickey grunts and bends his knees, hooking one arm under Ian’s legs, and sliding the other under his armpits. Then he stands, lifting Ian up in his arms.

“Well, that works too, I guess,” Ian says. His face is smashed up against Mickey’s neck, and Mickey can feel his breath as he laughs. “Are you sure you can carry me all the way?”

Mickey rolls his eyes as he starts walking, even though he knows Ian can’t see him. Sure, his more human form isn’t as sturdy as his Unseelie shape, and Ian has stupidly long limbs that flail every which way, but the day Mickey can’t carry a single person a couple hundred feet through the woods is the day he knows that he’s a mortal himself, and not before.

Ian evidently doesn’t share his confidence, because after a few more steps, he reaches up and wraps his arms around Mickey’s neck.

“If you drop me, I’m taking you down with me,” he says, only kind of kidding.

“I’m not going to drop you,” Mickey mutters, and ignores the swoop in his stomach as Ian touches him.

It’s been a long time.

When they reach the river, Mickey walks to where the water is deep enough that Ian will be able to go in up to his chest, and lowers him down onto the mossy bank.

“Can you—” he starts, then gestures vaguely.

“Think so,” Ian says. First he unwraps the bandage from his head—Mickey’s relieved to see there’s no visible blood—and then he drags his shirt off. Mickey stares at him stupidly for a second: his too-pale skin, the dark bruising on the left side of his chest, the smears of blood and dirt and whatever else. Then he comes to his senses and turns around. He walks a few yards down the bank, and settles with his back to a tree, close enough that he can make a dive for Ian if he starts drowning or something.

He can hear the rustle as Ian struggles out of his breeches, and then the splash as he pushes himself off the bank and into the water.

“Ahhh, shit,” Ian says behind him.

“What?” Mickey says. “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just cold,” Ian says, and his teeth are definitely chattering. “It’s good, though. Was starting to feel like I’d never be clean again.”

“Don’t have any soap or anything. Sorry,” Mickey says.

“That’s fine,” Ian says, and Mickey can hear him splashing around a little. He tries not to imagine it.

“You can turn around, you know,” Ian says, sounding amused. “Are you a holy man or something? Living in that cave, away from everyone?”

“Not exactly,” Mickey says. Now that Ian’s told him that he can turn around, it would be more strange if he didn’t, right? Humans are beyond complicated.

He turns around and tries to not look too closely at Ian’s bare chest, the water droplets shining on his shoulders, the way the sunlight catches on his hair.

Mickey swallows, and then sprawls out on his stomach on the grass of the riverbank, faking casual.

“Feeling better today?” he asks, gesturing at Ian’s head.

 “Still hurts,” Ian says after a second. “And I still can’t remember who I was fighting, or why.”

Mickey shrugs. “Guess it was because they were an enemy, and because someone told you to.” For all he knows, it was one of Mickey’s brothers. A few seasons ago, it might have been Mickey himself, though cutting throats and attacking from behind was more his style than open combat against a knight armed with glass and steel.

Still, he can’t tell Ian that. And for all he knows, Ian is lying anyway, to avoid having to explain his odd predicament to his apparently human rescuer.

Ian swishes his arms back and forth through the water, as though he’s swimming, even though Mickey can tell he’s standing with his feet planted in the sand and silt of the riverbed. Then he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, soaking in the sunshine from above.

Mickey leans forward and trails his fingers through the water, leaving a shimmer of light behind them. Control over water is technically his by right, through his mother, though he certainly hadn’t ever been encouraged to use it as a creature of his father’s court. This is almost the first time he’s ever really tried. He feels the touch of water against his skin like a kiss, and it takes almost no effort at all to push some of his own strength out through his touch and send it curling toward Ian in the water. He withdraws his fingers and quietly wipes them dry on the grass, watching with satisfaction as the trickles of light are carried by the gentle current and finally twist their way around Ian’s body. It won’t do much—maybe the equivalent of a few more nights’ uninterrupted sleep. Still, it’s something.

Ian lets out a sigh and sits up, opening his eyes. “Can you throw me my clothes?” he says. “Should rinse them too, while I’m in here.”

Mickey obliges, and Ian scrubs them as best he can for a few minutes. Then he throws them back, and they land with a wet _thwap_ on the grass.

“It’s funny,” Ian says, “I never knew how much I liked being clean until I couldn’t be anymore. To think of all the baths I tried to dodge when I was a kid. Lucy—”

His face instantly clouds, and Mickey’s ears prick up.

“Who’s Lucy?” he asks. It can’t hurt to know more about his captive—knowledge is power, after all.

“My—” Ian’s voice falters for a moment. Then he collects himself. “My foster mother. She didn’t like how dirty I got myself as a child. Rolling in the mud like a hog.”

Mickey can’t help but look at what he can see of Ian’s body. “Yes, I can see the resemblance,” he says.

Ian makes a face and splashes some of the water at his face. Mickey, startled, leans away more than he needs to. Still, it’s for the best. Being hit with too much water will probably wash away his human disguise, at least temporarily. Which, despite how clueless Ian seems to be about the Daoine Sidhe, couldn’t help but make even him suspicious.

Ian laughs at him. “Don’t like to wash, either?”

Mickey just stares at him, unamused. After a second, Ian shrugs and smiles, turning away to finish rinsing himself as best he can without soap or a cloth.

“I’d kill just about anyone for a lump of soap right now,” he says cheerfully, slapping his arms. It seems as though he’s feeling the effects of Mickey’s help already. “Or for some lunch.”

“Want to catch us some fish while you’re in there?” Mickey says.

“Even when I’m in one piece, I’m no great fisherman,” Ian admits. “Any chance your hunting skill extends to game bigger than rabbit?”

“Might,” Mickey says. “If I had a bow and arrow. Which I don’t.”

“Now that is something I can provide,” Ian says. He gestures toward Mickey for help getting out of the water.

Mickey swallows as quietly as he can, then stands and offers his hand down. Ian grips it, his own hand warm and strong, even though it’s damp with the cool river water. Mickey hauls him up, putting just a little more strength than would be natural, to make sure he doesn’t drop Ian, and to get the whole thing over faster.

Ian stands naked and tall on the riverbank.

“I’m feeling better already,” he announces.

Mickey is unsurprised.

“We’ll have to wait for my clothes to dry, anyway,” Ian continues, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the grass. “If you bring me some of those longer branches, I’ll start on the bow. I’m no archer, but it should be good enough to bring down a deer.”

Mickey nods, still not looking straight at Ian, and heads a little way down the riverbank, keeping Ian in eyeshot in case Iggy or someone else decides to drop by unexpectedly. By the time he’s found a good enough branch for a basic bow, Ian is stretched out on the grassy bank, basking in the sun like a cat. His hair shines like burnished copper, and it makes it hard for Mickey not to stare at him.

Among other reasons.

Plenty of creatures in the Unseelie Court had wooed humans, or at least lay with them, regardless of whether they were men or women. What mattered was who was in control. To debase one’s self, that was the shame. Bad enough if a prince of the court had lay down for one of his own kind—Mickey’s father would have never allowed it. Which was why Mickey had been forced to seek partners elsewhere. Mortals, even. But of course, in his father’s eyes, that had been worse.

In truth, Mickey had been starting to wonder if he’d lost his taste for fucking altogether, after the punishment, his exile. But looking at Ian is giving him cause to reconsider.

Not with Ian specifically, of course. He can hardly take the risk of Ian giving him up once Mickey turns him over to his father.

Mickey dumps the branch at Ian’s feet. Ian’s eyes flutter open, and it’s startling, how exactly his eyes match the shade of the leaves. He blinks a few times, then stretches.

“That should work,” he says. “Would you get my knife?”

It’s lying next to his still-damp clothes. Mickey picks it up and examines it, taking it carefully out of its sheath. It’s not as fine as the sword, but clearly still Seelie work. The metal vine pattern inlayed on the smooth wooden hilt burns a little against his fingers—in protest against his unclean touch, no doubt—but he was half expecting that, and keeps his face blank.

“Pretty,” he remarks casually, sliding it back into the sheath and tossing it to Ian.

“It was a gift,” Ian says.

“From who?” This is probably pushing his luck. Either Ian doesn’t remember, which will no doubt distress him, or he does, in which case he’s not going to want to talk about it.

Sure enough, Ian’s face clouds over again. “My sister,” he says shortly, and drops the weapon onto the ground like it’s poisoned. Then he grabs the branch and starts snapping off the twigs and stripping the leaves, probably harder than he needs to.

“Ah,” Mickey says. He watches Ian work for a couple of minutes in silence. “I had a sister,” he says suddenly, without knowing why. It’s true. She disappeared. But he remembers her still, when he sees birds on the wing, or hears a gleeful cackle. She’d had a spirit of destruction—but she’d been loyal and protective to a fault, especially of her brothers. Even against his father, sometimes.

Probably, Mickey suspects, the cause of her disappearance.

Ian is looking at him. Mickey shakes himself out of his reverie. “Should probably get your pants back on, before one of those splinters goes somewhere you don’t like it.” He reaches over to Ian’s clothes, finally mostly dry in the hot sun.

“All right,” Ian says, pulling them on. “If you like.” Mickey doesn’t have a good reply to that.

Ian settles back on the grass and picks up the stripped branch. Then he takes out the knife and runs it along the wood in smooth, steady strokes. The bark and green wood peels off obligingly under his blade, leaving the strong light wood underneath. Mickey watches him shaping the bow with fascination. The Unseelie Court has weapons, fine ones, but they’re usually stolen and then decorated, or else built from more sturdy materials: bone, stone, heavier metals. This light, swift, natural tool is foreign to him—and Seelie to the core. If Ian isn’t one of them, he’s certainly been well trained by one. Even if he doesn’t remember it.

“We’ll need feathers and glue for the arrows,” Mickey says after a few more minutes. “I can get all that easily enough. But what to you want for a string?”

Ian shrugs, his attention still firmly on the work in front of him. “Gut, probably. Have to catch an animal to kill an animal, right?”

Mickey grins. Maybe the Seelie Court isn’t quite so different from Unseelie as he’s always thought.

Ian finishes peeling the bow with his knife, then trims and rounds the ends roughly. He hands it to Mickey.

“Bend it, tell me what you think.” Mickey stands, then plants the branch against the dirt and leans on it. First gently, then a little harder. It bends satisfyingly, then springs back into shape when he stands up straight again.

“It’ll do,” he says, but secretly he’s impressed. The weapon will need finishing, and it might still break when they string it, but as far as he can tell, Ian’s managed to shape a half decent weapon while sitting, injured and feeble, on a riverbank. He hands the bow back to Ian, who grins up at him. Mickey represses the urge to smile back. So, the man is clever and good with his hands—hardly rare traits among either of their kinds.

“I’ll catch us something tonight or tomorrow,” Mickey says. “For the string.”

Ian nods at him, seemingly a little disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. Makes sense. He’s probably used to getting cosseted and praised at the Seelie Court. Mickey feels a sourness in his gut just thinking about it. That’s certainly one way the two courts differ.

“We done here?” he asks after a second. “Ready to go back?”

“Yes,” Ian says, looking even sadder. Mickey feels a mean satisfaction. “Don’t think I’m going to be able to walk, though,” he says. “I mean, I’m feeling a lot better, but not—” He falters, looking at Mickey uncertainly. Mickey rolls his eyes, and leans down to pick him back up.

He hadn’t realized it before, but the smell of blood and fear and sweat had been strong on Ian’s body when Mickey carried him here. That’s gone now, replaced by a warm, sweet smell, like hay drying under a hot summer sun. He tries not to breathe in too deeply.

Mickey prepares their dinner that night silently—roast squirrel, a handful of nuts and berries each—and they eat in silence. Ian is paler than he was that afternoon, but that’s to be expected, with the effects of Mickey’s boost beginning to wear off. Mickey’s fingers itch with the urge to doctor his drinking water, or something. Anything. But he forces it down. A rejuvenating bath is one thing, but if Ian feels better every time he takes a drink of water, it would be outrageous of him not to be suspicious, no matter how guileless he seems on the outside.

After they eat, Ian sleeps in the cave like a dead thing—even his breath is barely a whisper—and Mickey lies on his back by the dying fire outside, watching the sparks fly up into the sky, and trying not to think about what it is that he’s doing.

 

Mickey smells the intruder before he hears him, and snaps awake. The creature, whatever it is, is already in the cave with Ian. Fuck. Mickey rolls to his feet and crouches just outside the mouth of the cave. He peers around the corner, expecting to see Iggy or Joey or one of his father’s other minions crouched over Ian’s sleeping form.

Instead, he sees a young boy, dressed in Seelie green and brown, kneeling next to Ian, an earnest, worried look on his face. Ian is awake, leaning on one elbow, and speaking quietly.

“I can’t, don’t you understand?” Ian says. “They tried to kill me. I can’t go back there. I won’t.”

“Why would someone do that, Ian?” says the boy. “Please, you have to. We need you. No one tried to kill you! Fiona would never let that happen.”

“Then how do you explain this, Carl?” Ian says impatiently, pointing to his head.

Carl darts a quick uncomfortable look at it, like the wound embarrasses him. “It’s nothing,” he says. “If they were trying to kill you—”

“It would be nothing to you or Lip,” Ian corrects him, a note of bitterness in his voice. “It would have killed me. Almost did, except—” He stops, and Mickey breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t need anyone, not even a squire of the Seelie Court, looking at him any more closely than they already are.

“You have to come back,” Carl says desperately. “They sent me to get you. If you don’t come back, I don’t know what—”

“I’m not going back,” Ian says firmly. “Don’t try to make me.” Mickey isn’t sure what ace he thinks he has hidden. Maybe nothing, and he’s just bluffing. Or maybe he’s counting on Mickey to do something. Unlikely.

Maybe he’s just thinking of the fact that Carl will probably have to carry him most of the way back to the court.

“I can’t,” Carl says sullenly. “You know I can’t. Why are you doing this, Ian? It’s not my fault.”

Ian’s face softens. “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry. But I’m not going.” Mickey can’t see Carl’s face, but he can see him shaking his head.

“All right,” Carl says finally. “But I don’t know what they’re going to do when I tell them.”

Ian’s jaw clenches, but he stays silent. Then, as Carl’s turning to go, he says, gritted and harsh, “Tell Fiona—” Then he stops and shakes his head. “No. Never mind. I’m sorry.”

Carl’s shoulders sag. When Mickey catches a glimpse of his face as he leaves the cave, he doesn’t look angry. He looks . . . worried. Maybe even scared.

Mickey waits until the sound of Carl’s footsteps has faded before he ducks back into the cave.

Ian stares up at him from the ground, his face pale and drawn. “We have to go,” Ian says. “Now.”

Mickey knows that it would be better for his disguise as a dull mortal to ask questions, demand to know what’s going on. But he doesn’t want Ian to be dragged back to the Seelie Court any more than Ian does. So instead he just nods and walks over to him, then kneels down so Ian can climb into his back. It would be madness to test Ian’s newfound strength now, when they don’t have time to spare.

“Will you be able—” Ian starts, his arms around Mickey’s neck.

“Shut up,” Mickey says, and stands up in one smooth motion, settling Ian’s legs more firmly under his armpits. “Can’t talk and walk.”

“All right,” Ian says quietly, close to his ear. “But do you have somewhere you’re taking us?”

“Know what I’m doing,” Mickey says. “Now shut up before you tell everyone in the damn forest exactly where we are.”

It’s not easy to run with your hands behind you, holding someone else up. But Mickey does all right. He runs smooth and quiet for the first half hour, no slips or trips. It’s far longer and swifter than a mortal should be able to manage, but he figures at this point, it’s better to risk exposing his true nature to Ian than to chance being caught and captured by someone else in the Seelie Court because he ran too damn slow.

Also, Ian seems to be pretty convinced that someone from the court is out to kill him, and he’s no use at all to Mickey if he’s dead.

After a while, though, he starts to get sloppier: snaps a few twigs, disturbs a few more bats than he means too. His breath is even coming a little too hard, which isn’t something he can remember ever happening to him before, short of a life-and-death battle.

Maybe the mortal form is taking a toll, rubbing off on him.

Ian puts a hand on his shoulder. “Mickey,” he whispers. “You should rest.”

Mickey shakes his head impatiently, but after another two or three miles, it’s clear that he has no choice. He finds a stand of thorn trees—beloved by the Unseelie Court, more likely to keep him hidden—and, hoping that Ian doesn’t realize what his choice means, ducks among the branches. Then he crouches low, unbending his arms and letting Ian drop to the grass below as gently as he can, then throwing himself down beside him.

Mickey rolls over onto his back and stares up at the stars, gulping and gasping for breath. They spin above him—or his head is spinning, either way. It’s a clear night: no clouds, no mist.

Which is why Mickey is able to see the figure that looms up above him, when it blots out the stars overhead.

He’s crouched on his feet in less than a second, but it’s much too late. The thing—it’s a young man, a knight, but older and less beautiful than Ian—has his sword at Mickey’s throat, and the steel and glass bites coldly. Mickey gathers his magic around him, projects _mortal_ harder than ever before.

“Ian,” Mickey whispers, not having to fake the fear in his voice. It’s clear from the cold look on this new knight’s face that he’s lopped the heads off people who he knows and loves a lot more than Mickey.

Ian groans and turns over, then tries to scramble to his knees, reaching out and falling short, ending up on all fours and wheezing a little.

“Lip, no,” he whispers.

Lip. Philip, the prince-champion of the Seelie Court. Mickey somehow always thought he would be taller.

“Where’s this scum taking you, Ian?” Lip demands, and Mickey hates him from the second he opens his mouth, before he even makes it to the word “scum.” He viciously bites back the urge to transform into his other shape and attack.

“Lip, no,” Ian says, and staggers to his feet. “Don’t. He’s just—”

“Just what?” Lip demands, his blade not wavering from Mickey’s throat. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” Ian says. “He saved my life, all right? After one of you tried to kill me, left me for dead.” He steps a little closer, rests his fingers on the flat of Lip’s sword. “I’d be dead if he hadn’t found me. So put it away.”

Lip narrows his eyes, studying Mickey’s face one more time. Then he sneers and lowers his sword—but doesn’t sheath it. Mickey returns the sneer, then spits on the ground for good measure.

“This your prince?” he says to Ian. “What a prick.”

“My brother,” Ian says. A ghost of a smile crosses his wan face, but it’s gone in a second.

“I can’t go back,” he says quietly to Lip. “They’ll kill me.”

Lip shakes his head. “Ian, I don’t know what happened. But we need you. The—” He stops and cuts a sideways look at Mickey. “There’s been news. And we need you.”

“You don’t,” Ian says with a bitter smile. “You know that’s not true.”

Lip shakes his head. “Ian, you’re not listening to me, all right? I’m not asking you if you will. I’m saying, you have to. And if you won’t . . .”

“Then what?” Ian whispers.

Lip shakes his head slowly, and Ian’s whole body slumps, like a puppet with the strings cut. “I can’t,” he says. “Please, Lip. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Lip says, and his face is softer now. He reaches out and grips Ian’s arm, and Ian sways a little, leaning into him. “I don’t have a choice, Ian. You know I don’t.”

“I know,” Ian says. “I know.” He bows his head. Lip squeezes his arm. “Let’s—let’s just go, all right?”

Mickey’s heart is pounding—all his work, about to be wasted, if Ian walks off back to the Seelie Court and out of his reach. But what can he do? What can he say that would convince Ian to stay, despite his brother’s threats and pleas?

Lip smiles, relief on his face. Then Ian turns to Mickey. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything. I—”

“No need to bid your fond farewells just yet,” Lip says. “That thing is coming with us.”

“What?” Ian says, shocked. “We can’t. He’s—” _Mortal_ is clearly what he wants to say, but he can’t. Mickey says nothing. If he can’t stop Ian from going, then maybe going with him is the closest thing. At least if he stays close, he’ll have another chance to get Ian back. In fact, whatever information he’s able to gather from being in the Seelie Court as a guest—or a prisoner—will probably be as valuable to his father as the knight himself. Maybe more.

“He’s coming,” Lip says. “If he promises to behave, I won’t even tie him up.” Ian throws Mickey an anguished look, but says nothing, deferring to the older knight’s authority.

Mickey scowls.

“That a yes?” Lip says mockingly. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Won’t give you any trouble if you don’t give me any, tin man,” Mickey mutters at last. Lips gives him a short nod. “Where you taking us?”

Lip slides a shoulder under Ian’s arm, and starts to lead him away, Mickey trailing behind. “Not somewhere you’re likely to forget,” he says. “If you survive.” Mickey rolls his eyes.

Keeping his human disguise in place with Ian had been hard sometimes, but strangely, the threat of Lip’s presence seems to focus Mickey, and the mask feels rock solid now. But the strength comes at a price—it feels brittle too, like it’ll shatter with one good blow. And his muscles still ache from the run through the woods. Tell his body it’s mortal long and hard enough, and apparently it eventually begins to listen.

They walk a little way through the cold predawn darkness of the woods. There’s a light mist rising, but the three of them barely disturb it. There’s a gray horse grazing quietly in a glade up ahead, and its ears prick up when Ian and Lip come near.

“C’mon,” Lip says, and cups his hands to give Ian a leg up, like he’s a squire just learning. Ian sighs and steps up, swinging his leg over. He pats the horse’s neck, and takes the reins.

“Can’t promise I’m not going to fall asleep and topple off,” he warns Lip. “Also, I don’t have any idea where we are right now.”

“You came quite a way,” Lip agrees, taking the reins from Ian and starting to lead the horse. Ian’s head bends a little in defeat, and Mickey gnaws his lip in annoyance at seeing him behaving like a chastened child. No way he’s going to be able to convince Ian to leave the court with him if he’s acting like this the whole time.

As promised, Ian nods off a few times. It’s Mickey, not Lip, who steadies him each time, throwing the older knight an annoyed look. “Thank you,” Ian whispers the third time. “I’m sorry.” His face is pale and drawn in the shadows, all the strength he’d won back under Mickey’s care swiftly fading the farther they travel.

Mickey bites his lip and says nothing.

After a while, he notices the trees are thinning and the ground is starting to rise gently up in a green, grassy slope. The sun isn’t above the horizon yet, but a thin gray light is filtering through the mist. Beside him, Ian’s horse walks steadily, Lip in the lead. Dew is gathering on his armor, and he shakes it off in a patter of light drops. Ian’s head is nodding again, but he’s sitting sturdily in the saddle, at least for now.

As the last of the trees give away ahead of them, Lip brings the horse to a stop, and holds up a hand to halt Mickey. The sudden lack of movement jerks Ian awake, and he raises his head and looks out across the brightening landscape.

A few beams of sunlight find their way through the rapidly clearly mist, and then, ahead of them, Mickey sees it: the hill of the Seelie Court rising high above them. Instead of gray rocks and green grass, its slopes are silver and glass spires, lit up from within by cold white light, like there are stars trapped inside. Mickey turns to look at the trees behind them, and even their branches are suddenly filled with the light. It burns Mickey’s eyes, but Lip looks exultant. The light shows exactly how awful Ian looks, but even his face looks hopeful again as he closes his eyes and basks in its touch for a few moments. But then, as Mickey watches him through narrowed eyes, Ian’s face hardens, and he frowns, his eyes fluttering open.

“Come on,” he says to Lip. “If we have to go, let’s go and get it over with.”

Lip glances at him, looking startled. Then he shakes his head and raises the reins, tugging the horse toward the shining archway that leads into the hill-city.

“Thought you might be happy to be home,” he says after a second.

Ian clenches his jaw. “I have enemies here, Lip, even if you refuse to believe it.”

“I never said I didn’t believe you have enemies,” Lip says sharply. “There’s a difference between that and an attempt at cold-blooded murder.”

_Opportunity,_ Mickey thinks. He has no trouble believing that someone at court is going to be less than happy to see that Ian’s alive. The still-healing gash on his head is proof of that much, at least to someone who knows that no one in the Unseelie Court would have left the job half finished like that. No, the sloppiness speaks of half-planned betrayal and a weak-willed heart.

He wonders why Lip is so reluctant to admit it.

There’s a pressure growing around him as they draw closer to the arched gate, like he’s trying to swim through something thick and sticky.

“Ian,” he manages to grit out after a second. “You gonna do something about this?”

“Mickey!” Ian cries with alarm, turning around.

Mickey shoots him an annoyed look. “I knew there was something not quite right about you from the beginning. Would have tried to ignore it longer, but, you know.” He nods in front of them. “City in a hill and all that. So, do your magic or whatever and let me in.”

“Then—you know about us?” Ian says, sounding shocked. Mickey shrugs.

“Stories. Things people tell their children. Nothing real. Nothing like this.”

He’s not sure if the hill is rejecting his Unseelie nature or his mortal disguise (if the first, then he’s about to get his head chopped off without fanfare, that much is for sure), but either way, he’s not going to be able to step foot inside.

“Shit, Mickey, I’m sorry,” Ian says. “I—I wasn’t thinking, I’m just so tired.” He slips off the horse, steadied by Lip, then kneels down in the dewy grass and presses one hand to the grass. He reaches out with the other and clasps Mickey’s hand, Mickey fighting the urge to pull away from the cold burn of magic gathering around him. Then Ian closes his eyes, frowning a little. Nothing happens. The tingle of magic in Ian’s hand slowly fades away, and he opens his eyes again.

“Lip,” he says quietly. “I can’t. Will you—”

Lip grabs Mickey’s wrist roughly and slaps a hand against the ground. The power of the Seelie Court rushes over Mickey in one fast, icy rush. He gasps, then smooths his face.

“Apparently he means no harm,” Lip says, but his face is no friendlier. “Mortal, you’re welcome among us.”

But the words are clearly an empty formality.

Mickey doesn’t think much of the court’s magic. He’s no wizard, but even his desperate and haphazard disguise seems to be enough to fool it. Typical Seelie light-and-honey shit. He offers Lip a nod, then turns toward Ian. “Can you make it inside?” he asks.

Lip shoulders coldly past him, and gives Ian his arm again. The horse walks calmly behind as they start the long walk into the hill, and Mickey doesn’t seem to have any choice but to follow.

He never accompanied his father on any visits to the Seelie Court when he was younger, when there was still a peace, and in his disguise as a mortal yokel, he doesn’t have to bother to hide his wide eyes as they enter the city. It’s dazzling—both in the sense that he can’t quite make sense of everything he’s seeing, and also in that it’s painfully bright. Stairways and arches and trees all flicker on the edge of his vision, but shift and disappear when he turns his head, other equally mutable things rising to take their place. It makes him jumpy—impossible to keep an eye out for a threat when his surroundings won’t stay still for longer than a second.

Lip looks like he’s part of the surroundings, his armor reflecting the white lights, his face arrogant and cold. Even Ian, wounded and weary, looks high and untouchable, his Seelie green eyes hard.

Then he turns and shoots Mickey a worried glance, and the illusion of regality is shattered. Still, Mickey feels grimy and disgusting in his mortal mud and blood. Though no doubt less disgusting than he would look in this place with his true shape right now. He has to press his lips together tightly at the image that brings to mind.

They’re drawing near to the center of the city now, nothing but white light on any side of them, and up ahead he can see something solid, something that’s getting closer with every step. He squints—it’s two golden trees, their branches meeting in the middle, and underneath there are two thrones side by side.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey can see Ian draw himself up stiffly, his face tense and still. He lifts his arm off Lip’s shoulder and takes a few tentative steps on his own. Lip is blank faced but seemingly ready to spring if Ian looks like he’s going to drop.

After another few steps, Mickey can see there are two people sitting on the thrones, and a small crowd of people behind, all watching them slowly make their way toward them.

But before Mickey can even get a good look at the people, the blonde woman sitting in the throne on the right is standing up and stumbling toward Ian, her arms stretched out. “My baby!” she coos. “My boy!”

Mickey looks sideways at Ian, who doesn’t show a similar excess of emotion. He just looks guarded. Lip’s face, on the other hand, is openly full of disgust. Which is odd, considering this must be the queen.

The woman, the Seelie queen, is clinging to Ian’s shoulders now, her face buried in his neck. Ian sways, barely able to take the extra weight, and Lip has to steady him again, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

She raises her head and turns her teary, smiling face to Lip. “You did it,” she says. “You found him. Sweetie, thank you . . .”

“Don’t,” Lip says, and steps back from her, still with one hand under Ian’s elbow. Mickey’s stomach drops, thinking he’s about to see some kind of bloodbath. Anyone disrespecting Mickey’s father like that in front of their court would end up missing a limb. But the queen just shifts her attention back to Ian, like Lip hadn’t even spoken.

“What did they do to you, baby?” she says in a shaky voice, her fingers pressed against Ian’s still healing wound. He gasps in pain and pulls away from her. “Oh,” she cries softly. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry—”

“Monica, don’t. I’ve got it,” comes a voice from behind, and a thin woman with brown hair in a braid steps up from the small crowd of people. She’s wearing a long green dress, covered here and there with glints of metal, like fish scales. Ian sags with relief when he sees her.

“Fiona,” he says, and she places her hands gently on either side of his head, and kisses his forehead. With a little pulse of red, the wound on his head seems to swell and then instantly subside, fading down to a light pink scar, and then smoothing away entirely. Ian staggers a little, both Fiona and Lip steadying him, while the queen flutters her hands nervously behind them.

After a second, Ian straightens, looking healthy and strong for the first time since Mickey’s met him. A ripple of relief goes through the rest of the court, and Fiona smiles, her face lighting up.

“Sure that’s a good idea?” someone mutters from behind the crowd, and Fiona, Ian, and Lip all turn and stare. Mickey cranes his neck, and sees that it’s not just some random dissenter. It’s whoever—or whatever—is sitting on the other golden throne.

Mickey squints. The thing could be a man, but he looks more like a scarecrow, his clothes ripped and messy. What he doesn’t look like is a king. But why else would he be sitting there?

“It’s a mongrel,” the scarecrow mutters. “Can’t even heal itself? Should have left it out to die when we had the chance.”

“Frank!” says the queen, her mouth slack and shocked. But none of the others look surprised or confused. Just varying levels of angry or annoyed. Ian’s face is totally blank, but Mickey can see the tight, angry set of his jaw.

“What?” the king whines. “So, all the sudden it’s a crime to say what you think? Let me remind all of you, that this is my family, my court! And if I say I want that thing gone, then it’s gone!” He waves an arm around dramatically for emphasis. Mickey catches a glimpse of Fiona rolling her eyes, but when he turns to look at her, she just staring flatly at the king, resting her hand firmly on Ian’s shoulder.

“Frank,” the queen says cajolingly. “You can’t send him away! We just got him back! And we need him, all right? We need him. I need him here. My son. My little knight in shining armor.”

“No, no, no!” Frank says. Mickey is so fucking confused right now. _This_ is his father’s greatest enemy? It doesn’t seem possible. “I said _gone_.”

“Frank,” Fiona says, no patience in her voice. “We need Ian. You can’t—”

Frank stands up, swaying a little. What the hell is wrong with him? Mickey stares, fascinated and horrified, as Frank raises a shaking finger at Fiona. “Don’t. You. Dare. Tell me what to do,” he says, and it suddenly feels like a storm is gathering under the hill. The white lights dim, and there’s a smell like lightning gathering in the air. Whatever else Frank may be, it’s clear he still has power.

Fiona glares, but doesn’t say anything else. The queen bites her lip and stares at the ground.

Ian tips his chin up defiantly. The wrong move. Frank lets out a howl, and launches himself off the throne at Ian’s throat. Before he can even think, Mickey’s stepping in front of Ian, catching Frank by the throat, and flinging him down to the ground.

“Wha—” Frank wheezes in disbelief from his heap on the floor. Everyone else is staring at Mickey now.

“Mickey,” Ian says in shock. “How did you—”

Frank gestures at him from the ground, and Mickey feels it like teeth sinking into his flesh. His hands go to his throat, scrabbling, but he can’t dislodge whatever power it is Frank is using—at least, not without completely revealing himself. And he’d not going to. Not after that stunt. Finally, Frank releases him, and Mickey doubles over, trying to catch his breath.

“Put that _thing_ ,” Frank says, spitting a little blood from where his face cracked against the stone of the floor, “and its _fucking attack dog_ away. Right. NOW.” The last word is a peevish bellow, and it’s accompanied by a crack of lightning that strikes one of the trees halfway down the hall. The tree bursts into flame, but Fiona raises a calm hand, and the fire is smothered to death before it even gets started.

“Lip,” she says quietly. “Please, can you—Ian. I’m sorry. It won’t—” She darts a look at Frank, still in a heap on the ground.

“It’s fine, Fiona,” Ian mutters as Lip gently grabs his arm and, less gently, Mickey’s, and begins to steer them away. “We’ll be fine.”

“We’ll deal with him,” Lip mutters into Ian’s ear, but at this range, Mickey can’t help but overhear. “Don’t worry. Just sit tight for now, all right?”

Ian shakes his head. “You still think he had nothing to do with it?” he grits out. “He can’t even look at me.”

“C’mon, Ian,” Lip says. “Not right now. We’re going to fix it. Just—wait till things cool down.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ian says. “You’re not the one getting locked up.”

A flicker of guilt and shame crosses Lip’s face, but it passes quickly. “I promise, Ian. We just—we have to figure out a way to manage them.”

Lip is leading them out of the bright, shimmering hall, and down a series of passageways, each narrower and darker than the last.

“Like Fiona hasn’t been trying to do that, all this time?” Ian says. “Nothing’s getting any better. What are _you_ going to do?”

Lip ignores him and pushes open a wooden door in the gray stone wall. They duck through the door, and start to head down a rough tunnel with stones embedded in the ground. It’s cold and smells like dirt. Mickey feels at home, better than he felt in the too-bright throne room, but both Lip and Ian are pale and sweating a little.

Glowing green and white moss on the walls of the tunnel is the only thing lighting their way now. They’re deep under the hill. If Mickey were actually mortal, he’d be worrying about suffocation right now. As it is, he’s more fascinated by the fact that the Seelie Court has places like this. And to keep their own people imprisoned, no less.

There’s a brighter light up ahead, a cold metallic glint. They stop in front of a stone chamber set far back in the wall, with shining bars in the front, half metal, half magic. Lip swings open the bars and nods them inside, and they go. Then he places a hand between two of the bars, and they flare up, then dim again. When he takes his hand away, there’s only one thick bar. No lock. No key. Just a solid door with no chance of escape.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “Ian. I’ll come back. I promise.” His eyes are earnest.

Ian swallows and nods. Lip nods back, then throws a glance at Mickey. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says. Mickey narrows his eyes, and Lip matches him glare for glare. Then he turns and heads back the way he came. The light reflecting off his armor keeps him in sight for a long time, but at last he turns a corner, and then they’re alone.

With a sigh, Ian sits down on the ground, leaning up close to the bars like they’re some kind of fire he can warm himself on. Then he turns and looks at Mickey, standing with his arms crossed in the middle of the cell.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Ian says softly. “None of it. I didn’t mean for you to get involved. If you’d just let me leave when I wanted to the first time—”

“Yeah, my mistake, I guess,” Mickey says. Ian looks at him, startled. “What do you want me to say, Ian? I’m locked up in fairy prison because I tried to stop a guy from bleeding to death. It’s not exactly what I signed up for.”

“Don’t say that word,” Ian mutters.

“What word?” Mickey says, deliberately obtuse. A mortal wouldn’t know. “Death?”

“Don’t call us that.” Now Ian looks angry. It sparks something in Mickey’s gut, a strange satisfaction.

“Oh, sorry. What do you prefer to be called? The Wee Folk? The Shining Ones?”

“The Daoine Sidhe,” Ian snaps. “Don’t bait me, Mickey. Please. I don’t—” He stops, takes a shuddering breath. “There’s a reason Frank hates me, you know. My magic. I can’t always control it. And being somewhere like this . . .” He presses up close to the bars again. “It’s painful. It makes it worse. So please, don’t. I know you’re angry. But don’t. Not right now.”

Mickey is silent for a moment. To not be in control of his own magic . . . he can’t imagine it. Sure, there are parts he’s had to suppress or neglect over the years, but it still belongs to him, comes to him as naturally as breathing. No wonder Ian couldn’t heal himself.

“Were you raised away from the court?” Mickey asks. He lowers himself to the ground and sits, not too close to Ian, but not very far.

“What?” Ian says.

“You mentioned your foster mother, before.”

“Yes,” Ian says. His voice is small and distant. “I was fostered. And brought back when I was grown.”

“A changeling,” Mickey says. Ian gives a short laugh.

“It used to be a honor,” he says. “Something special, something powerful.” He stretches his hands out in front of him, studies them. “Something went wrong, I guess.” He makes his hands into fists, then drops them.

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. Agreeing would be rude, but he’s not sure what the alternative would be. They sit in silence together for a few moments.

“My father—” Mickey starts. _Shit._ What the fuck is he doing. He can’t talk to Ian about his father, for fuck’s sake.

Ian tilts his head to look at him, curiously. His face is pale in the dim white light of the metal bars and the glowing moss. “What about him?” Ian asks after a second, when Mickey doesn’t continue.

“Nothing,” Mickey mutters. “Doesn’t like me much, is all.”

“I know the feeling,” Ian says with a tiny smile.

“He told me he’d rather see me die than—” Mickey stops again.

“Than what?”

“Than keep—doing what I was doing.” Mickey smirks, can’t really resist it. “Doing _who_ I was doing.”

Ian laughs. “What, were you fooling around with some rich lord’s daughter?”

“Nah,” says Mickey. “Getting fucked by some peasant’s son.”

Ian gets very still, then turns to look at Mickey again. “You’re—”

“I like what I like,” Mickey says sharply. “It doesn’t make me anything.” He curls his hands into fists.

“Oh,” Ian says after a second. “I didn’t—I mean, it’s just—” He trails off, and there’s a blush on his cheeks, barely visible in the dim silvery light. “I was just surprised,” he finally manages. “You don’t seem like someone who would . . . lie down for anyone.”

Mickey can’t hold back his smirk. “Who says I’m doing it for them?”

Ian stares at him. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“You have any idea what it feels like?” Mickey says.

“I—no,” Ian falters. “I haven’t—”

“Not with anyone? Not even a girl?” Mickey’s a little surprised.

Ian tips his chin up defiantly. “So what?” he challenges.

“So, nothing,” Mickey says. “I’m just not sure how else to explain it, if you haven’t done it.”

Ian turns all the way around to face Mickey, his back against the bars and his face in shadow.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” he says quietly after a second. “I thought about it. Dreamed about it. But—” He stops, his breath loud and harsh in the quiet cell.

“But what?” Mickey says, oddly eager for the answer, and he can’t even think of why.

“Not . . . what I should have been dreaming about,” Ian says finally, and Mickey’s breath catches in his throat.

“What did you dream about, Ian?” he says.

Ian looks up at him, washed out and pale in the dim silver light of the cell. “Sometimes I dreamed about the stars,” he said. “But not the ones I can see in the sky here. They were—different shapes, different patterns. Brighter, too, somehow. And the air was warm. There was an ocean. Not cold, like here. Warm. And the stars above it—”

He trails off, but Mickey is mesmerized, caught up in the sound and smell of the warm water he can hear in Ian’s voice, the shine of the stars in his mind. So mesmerized that he barely notices Ian’s hand brushing gently against him, Ian’s fingers resting on his leg, too high up to be innocent . . .

Mickey freezes. “There’s someone here,” he says.

Ian pulls his hand away so quickly, Mickey almost wonders if he imagined it. “Are you sure?” Ian says. “I don’t hear anything.”

There’s no way for him to explain that he can sense his father drawing near that isn’t going to result in Ian panicking right now. But he can. Even through the bars. Even through the mile of dirt and stone. He can feel his rage, his hate, like a gathering storm. Crackling energy and the promise of pain.

Mickey had been crazy to ever believe that he would win his father’s love again.

He’d been crazy to ever believe he’d had it in the first place.

There are tears wet on his cheeks, and Ian is saying something to him. But none of that matters.

“We have to get out,” Mickey says. “We have to get out, we have to get out. Before he finds us here. We have to get out.” He’s running his hands over the dirt and stone walls of the cell, over the stinging, shining metal of the bars that bite at his flesh.

“Mickey,” he hears Ian say behind him, frightened. “What’s wrong? Who’s going to find us? What are you talking about?”

He’s on hands and knees now, scrabbling at the tightly laid flagstones of the floor. If he could just get one loose, get to the dirt underneath, then maybe . . . But the stone is resisting him. He tries to pry it up, but it might as well be frozen to the dirt.

“Mickey, what—” Ian starts.

“Help me,” Mickey grits out, and then Ian is down on his knees next to him. Maybe it’s because he’s part of the court, maybe it’s because he’s not as consumed by panic as Mickey is, but either way, his long fingers have the flagstone loose in a few seconds, and then Mickey presses his palm to the bare dirt and sends his mind down, down, down, deep under even the lowest reaches of the court’s tunnels, searching . . .

There. Down at the farthest roots of the hill, a trickle of water—the spring that feeds the river back in the forest.

In his mind, he touches it, calls to it, and it rises eagerly to meet him. He thinks of waterfalls, of geysers, of water carving out valleys and rivers and caves deep underground. And the water answers.

The dirt under his hand is a little patch of mud now, and he sinks his hand in it up to the knuckles.

“Mickey?” says Ian. He sounds scared, confused.

Better than hearing him screaming once Mickey’s father finds them here. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and doubles his effort. The water is running clear now, bubbling up around his hand and spreading out, loosening the flagstones as the dirt beneath them changes to churning mud. He feels his knees start to sink a little, and from Ian’s cry of alarm next to him, the same is happening to him.

Mickey yanks his hand free from the mud and opens his hands, finding Ian crouched next to him, staring at the floor in horror. “What—” Ian starts, lifting his eyes to stare at Mickey.

“No time,” Mickey says. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Ian’s waist. “Hang on,” he says. “And don’t fucking breathe.”

The weakened floor gives way underneath them, and they’re falling and sliding downward in a mass of mud and rushing water. The pull of the heaving muck around them tries to wrench Ian out of his arms, but Mickey hangs on grimly, grabbing Ian’s around the shoulders with his other arm for good measure. His eyes are shut—he hopes Ian had the good sense to do the same—but he can feel the surging current of the water around them, and uses it to shove the broken stones of the floor and the other rocks dislodged by the mudslide away from them.

He’s overwhelmed by the sound and the chaos, so he shuts it all out, and focuses only on the path the water is following, carrying them down, deeper than even the Seelie Court can reach. There’s a great stillness down there, a lake probably. Safety.

Ian’s body is limp in his arms now, but whether it’s from shock or a blow, he’s not sure. He can’t worry about that now. All he can do is hang on and try to keep them clear of the sliding debris. The water seems to be picking up speed the deeper they get, like it’s as eager to be free of the hill as he is.

Then they’re tumbling through the air, stones and mud and water all around them, and Mickey clamps onto Ian tighter than ever as the lake comes rushing up to meet them.

It’s freezing. Colder than anything he’s ever imagined. The shock of it steals his breath for a second, and he breaks the surface of the water gasping for air, Ian’s body pulling him down like dead weight. He kicks hard, treading for all he’s worth, and makes sure Ian’s head is clear of the surface. Then he blinks and looks around, trying to get his bearings.

There’s an icy white glow below them, illuminating the water in every direction. He can make out a darker line ahead that must be the shore, and he starts to kick toward it, pulling Ian along with him. Despite how cold it is, the water seems to slide eagerly around him, recognizing its own, and he can feel his strength starting to grow, fed by the power surrounding him.

After a minute or so, his feet hit the glowing stones at the bottom of the lake, and he stumbles up onto the dark shore, then lies on his back, eyes staring up in the deep blackness above. Ian’s stretched out next to him, on his stomach, and after a second to catch his breath, Mickey sits up and rolls him over, cradling Ian’s head in his lap.

Ian coughs hard, spits up a bunch of water, but seems to be breathing all right. Mickey can feel himself relax once he sees the steady rise and fall of Ian’s chest.

“Told you to fucking hold your breath,” he says. Ian’s eyes blink open, and he stares up at him for a long moment.

“Mickey?” he says at last, slowly. “What’s wrong with your face?”

His disguise. It’s gone. The water washed it away. He should have realized all that water, the power inside it, would be too much. But he hadn’t been thinking. Just acting on instinct, like a desperate animal in a trap. And now he’ll pay the price.

He wonders which face Ian is seeing. If it’s just his eyes and the unmistakable aura of the Daoine Sidhe, that’s not so bad.

Ian lifts a shaking hand to touch his mouth, the pushed-back lip, the exposed fangs.

Well, that’s worse.

“Are you—” Ian starts. “Are you one of us? Why—why wouldn’t you tell me?”

What it says about Ian that he hasn’t already assumed Mickey is an Unseelie spy, Mickey isn’t sure. But it won’t take him long to put together.

Mickey shakes his head swiftly, shifting into his other, less monstrous form. “We don’t have time,” he says, and ignores the crack in his voice. “He’s coming, and once he finds that hole, he’ll follow it down. We have to keep going, get out of here and back to the woods.” Back to where Mickey was safe—even if it was only for a little while.

Ian reaches out and grabs his wrist with an iron grip. “No,” he says. “Tell me who you are. Now.”

Mickey shakes his way free, not bothering to hide his own strength this time. The look of shock on Ian’s face gives him a grim feeling of satisfaction. Apparently he’d done better acting like a mortal than he’d thought.

“I’m nobody,” he says. “All I wanted was to be left alone. That’s it. But I’m stuck with your ass now, and unless you want the Unseelie king to be making your acquaintance intimately in the next couple of minutes, we need to stop chatting and get the fuck out of here. Now.”

Ian’s staring at him with wide eyes, and it’s clear he’s not satisfied, but Mickey’s right, and apparently he knows it.

“How?” Ian says, lifting his hands up to indicate the cave, the lake, the sheer rock walls on every side.

Mickey turns his attention to the lake and rubs his lip nervously with one hand. “It came from somewhere,” he mutters.

“What did?” Ian says.

“The lake. All that water. And if it got in, we can get out.” And far away, if they’re lucky.

He squints up into the darkness, studying the rock for a sign of a drip or a trickle. Nothing. So he closes his eyes instead, and casts his mind around. Ian is silent behind him.

“There,” Mickey whispers after a few moments. Too long, maybe, but panicking is what got him into this mess, so now he needs to be calm. “At the far end. There’s a tunnel, leading up. Might be big enough.”

“How are we going to get there?” Ian asks. “It looks like a mile or more. I can’t swim that.”

Mickey grimaces. “You’re not going to.”

He crouches down by the water’s edge, and reaches out to lay a hand on its surface. It’s freezing, and unhappy that he and Ian have disrupted its long quiet sleep. Agitated little ripples spread out from his fingers, and he can hear water rushing somewhere, in quick little waves.

Mickey takes his hand away, and leans back on his heels, eyes closed, thinking. He turns his thoughts to his own river in the wood: small and quiet, but deep.

He can’t remember his mother, doesn’t know where she lived or what water was her home. But the touch of her gentle hand on his head—that he remembers.

He reaches out again, gently, slowly, and brushes the surface. This time, the water clings, warmer than before. It had a spirit once, he realizes. Eons ago. She was the one who laid the glowing stones. The tunnel at the far end was hers as well, for her to pass into the sunlit world of air and earth. She went once and never returned.

Mickey lets out a breath when the surge of sadness, the deep loneliness of the water hits him. He feels, suddenly, that he could stay here. Surrounded by the water, fed by its power. Safe, forever. He shivers as the ache fills him.

Ian’s warm hand on his shoulder startles him, and his eyes fly open. The lake is shining brightly now, an ocean of white light.

“Mickey,” he says softly. “Are you all right?”

Mickey lets out a shaky laugh. His mouth is dry. “It wants me,” he says.

“Well, it can’t have you,” Ian replies. “Mickey, we have to go. Please. You said—”

His father. Coming for them. Probably coming down after them now. _Shit._ They don’t have time. They have to go, now. Mickey hardens his mind and his heart, and touches the water again.

The glowing white stones are rising through the water, pushing their way to the surface, as light as bubbles. When they break the surface, Mickey gives them a little mental nudge, and they align roughly end-to-end, stretching from the shore where he and Ian are standing, all the way to the sloping tunnel at the far side of the cave.

“It’s a path,” Ian breathes. “How—”

“Doesn’t matter, let’s go,” Mickey says shortly. He wades out to the first stone, about knee-deep in the lake. The water swirls around his legs, warmer now. He ignores it, and hoists himself up onto the flat stone. It’s smooth and somehow dry, and the middle dips down a little, so they won’t lose their footing. The spirit who built the path knew what she was doing, clearly, since the magic works just as well a thousand years later.

Once he’s standing on the first stone, Mickey turns and offers Ian his hand. Ian stares uncertainly up at him for a second. “Come on, your highness,” Mickey snaps. “You wanna be pissed at me, go ahead. Just do it once we’re out of here.”

Ian’s face hardens, and he grips Mickey’s hand harder than he probably needs to. Mickey grips him back, and yanks him up. Ian’s hand is warm, a little sweaty. For a second they’re standing too close on the small stone, faces turned away but bodies up against each other. Then Mickey turns and steps onto the next stone, and the one after that. “It’s solid,” he says. “Let’s go.”

They move fast, saying nothing, the harsh sound of Mickey’s breath loud in his own ears. The lake is even bigger than he’d guessed—at least two miles, maybe even three. The white path cuts through the water, sturdy and smooth, the stones emitting the same soft white glow. It doesn’t hurt his eyes the way the harsh brightness of the court above them had. Occasionally the water will lap up over Mickey’s feet, but he ignores it, and it eventually stops.

The whole time, he can still feel the storm outside, the gathering strength of his father’s rage. Even the mile of stone and the benign power of the lake below him isn’t enough to make him feel safe now.

“Are we close?” Ian finally whispers, though it wouldn’t actually matter if he screamed. It’s not sound that his father’s wargs will be tracking.

“Halfway, I think,” Mickey says.

“Are you’re sure it goes somewhere?”

 “Well, every road goes somewhere. Can’t promise it’s anywhere good.”

The huff Ian makes in reply might be a kind of laugh.

There’s a dim, warm yellow light growing up ahead. Daylight, maybe. He hopes. Behind them, he can hear quiet splashes as the stones start to drop back into the water. It won’t stop anyone pursuing them for long, but it still makes him feel better.

“Is that it?” Ian says. He’s panting a little. Apparently being a knight of the Seelie Court doesn’t involve quite as much running as being part of the Wild Hunt.

“Think so,” Mickey says. He can see the far shore of the lake, the glowing waves lapping against gravel and sand. The stones are dropping behind them faster now, and the path ahead is ending. Mickey runs over the last few stones so fast, it feels like his feet barely touch them, and he hits the shore at a run, Ian right behind him. The source of the light is clear now, a stone archway at the top of a long tunnel, sloping upward. From the green tinge of the light, Mickey thinks it must be overgrown with vines, maybe even trees that were only seeds when the lake was first built. He pictures a grove of oaks, too close to let them slip by, and his heart sinks.

The sand shifts under his feet as he dashes up the slope, the sunlight already overwhelming his eyes, but he squints and keeps moving. Twenty feet to go. Ten . . . They reach the archway, and Mickey drops to his knees and starts tearing at the hanging vines and the bracken that are blocking their way. The plants give way easily, and he lunges out into the sunshine, gasping.

It’s only afternoon, but after however many hours in the cave, Mickey may as well be staring directly into the sun. He’s totally blind. Ian’s sharp cry behind him as he emerges from the tunnel makes it clear he’s having the same trouble.

“Fuck,” Mickey says. _“Fuck.”_ He hadn’t realized how desperate he was to get out of the darkness until he’d actually made it. But shit, it hurts. He’s on his knees, head ducked down, eyes closed. There’s dry grass under his hands, and the warm smell fills his nose. He takes a deep breath, and then another.

“Where are we?” Ian says. “I can’t see anything.”

“Give me a second,” Mickey says, and tries to squint his eyes open. There’s trees, that much is for certain. He sees a black shape go winging off up above them, maybe a bird. “I think we made it back,” he says. “Back to the forest. The western edge, not where I found you.” The angle of the sun in his eyes confirms the direction, at least.

“Which way should we go?” Ian says. “Is there somewhere we can—”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll get you where you need to go,” says a voice from in front of them. Mickey blinks, and stares blearily up at the hulking figure that just spoke.

“Iggy,” he says, and his heart sinks. “Fuck, how did you—never mind, doesn’t matter. I wasn’t here, all right? You didn’t see me. Just let us—”

“Oh, it’s way too late for that, Mick,” his brother says. “Can’t you feel it? Dad’s here. And he knows you’re here too. Wants to see you. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Mickey hears him, but in his mind, it’s just a dull rush. He stays crouched on the ground. It doesn’t matter. None of what he did mattered. He should have let Ian bleed to death, quiet and peaceful in the woods. Should never have tried to save him It would have been better. Cleaner. For both of them.

Now they’re going to die screaming.

His eyes have cleared finally, and he turns his head just enough to see Ian crouched on the ground next to him, hands planted in the dirt, looking back at him.

“Mickey,” he whispers. “What is he talking about?”

Mickey drops his gaze back to the ground, says nothing.

“What, you didn’t tell him?” Iggy says. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, actually. You always were the smart one, huh, Mick?”

The light is starting to get dimmer now, like clouds are rolling in, or night is falling. But it’s not that. Mickey can feel it in his bones, the wild call to battle.

It’s the Hunt.

Mickey’s never seen it from the outside, never tried to imagine what it must have been like for the people they came down on. There’s a low roar, the screaming and laughter of a thousand monsters. Once, not all that long ago, Mickey would have been among them, hungry for a fight, hungry for blood, delighting in the company of the others, the awful and wonderful storm of their rage.

Now he shivers. He can taste blood in his mouth.

Next to him, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ian craning his neck to look upward, trying to see what’s bearing down on them. Mickey closes his eyes.

“Should we run?” Ian says. His voice is shaking.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mickey says dully. “They like it better when you run.”

And then, it all stops. A sudden eerie silence presses in on them. But Mickey knows better than to think it’s over. This is just the eye of the storm.

He hears the heavy footsteps, and even though he knows what he’ll see, he can’t help it. He opens his eyes, and looks up.

His father is there. His eyes are burning as he looks down at his youngest son, cowering in the dirt with a Seelie prince at his side.

Mickey stays frozen, a rabbit in front of a snake about to strike.

Then his father is lifting him up, choking him, and in his mind, Mickey knows better than to struggle, but his body won’t listen. He kicks weakly, his feet searching for the ground. One of his hands goes up, scrabbling at his father’s sinewy wrist. “No,” he croaks out. Something in his neck pops.

“Dad!” Iggy shouts. “Dad, what the fuck are you doing? Didn’t you see who he brought? The prisoner?”

His dad’s grip loosens, but not enough to let him breathe again. Just enough that he can feel the blood start to rush back to his head. He goes limp—it’s not a choice, it’s just the only thing his body can do right now.

“The fuck are you talking about,” his dad growls out.

“It’s one of their knights! The changeling, the weak one!” Iggy says. “Dad, Mickey brought him to you! Put him down!”

His dad flings him away, and Mickey lands in a heap, his breath hissing in his throat, the flesh and muscles crushed and mangled. His body is trying to heal, but damage his father chooses to inflict doesn’t fade so easy. Mickey blinks and manages to roll onto his side, so he can see what’s happening.

Ian is pale, but he staggers to his feet, then turns and throws a look at Mickey, crumpled on the ground. It’s disgust, pure hatred, and it goes through Mickey like a knife.

Then Ian turns to face Mickey’s father.

“You should probably know,” he says, “Frank fucking hates me. He’s not going to give up a damn thing to get me back. So you might as well just kill me now.”

Terry stares him down. “You telling me what to do?”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “No. I’m telling you what I’m worth to them, and to you. Nothing. I’m nothing.”

The Unseelie king grins slowly. “You might not be worth much as ransom. But you’ll still make for good target practice.”

Mickey’s stomach heaves and he tries to choke down his rising bile. Ian swallows, but doesn’t waver. Terry turns to Iggy. “Grab him,” he barks. Iggy yanks Ian’s hands behind his back. Mickey can’t see what he uses to tie them, but from the look that flashes across Ian’s face, it hurts.

Then his dad’s eyes are on him again. “Good work,” he says . But he doesn’t reach down, doesn’t try to help him stand. “Bringing him here. If you meant to. Which I doubt.” He sticks one foot under Mickey’s body, and flips him onto his back. “Get up, cockroach. Those fucking shiny bastards are waiting for us to hand them their asses on a silver platter.” His ribs screaming with protest, Mickey manages to push himself up onto his hands and knees, then staggers up to standing. He can feel a trickle of blood running down the side of his face. He must have cut himself on a rock when Terry threw him down.

His father looks him up and down, then nods, and begins his heavy walk toward the edge of the forest. The rest of the Hunt, gathered in the trees and the air around, stirs and starts to move, following his lead. Iggy pushes Ian a little ahead of him, and Mickey trails behind. He wants to get close, wants to try to talk to Ian, to explain. But then he remembers that look—the disgust, the betrayal. It won’t matter what he says. He’s killed Ian, as surely as if he’d struck the blow himself. And they both know it.

His mind is blank, just focused on taking one step, and then another. After a while, the trees start to thin, the gray light getting stronger around them. Ahead, he can catch glimpses of the green slopes of the hill of the Seelie court. All that running and they’re back where they started. And in even worse company.

There are no shimmering lights this time. No white trees. The hill looks the way it must to mortals: blank and forbidding. As they emerge from the cover of the trees, and the flying creatures of the Hunt spread out to cover the sky, it’s covered in shadow.

But then he sees a glint of light reflecting off metal, at the base of the hill. A figure in armor, with a drawn sword in front of him, the point buried in the ground.

It’s Lip. He has no helmet, so Mickey can easily see the look on his face as the Unseelie king and his horde draw near. Disgust, the same look as on Ian’s face. Disgust and hatred.

“Are you all the Seelie Court has to show for itself, boy?” Terry calls jovially to Lip. “One lone knight?”

“I’m here with a message,” Lip says, his face dark. “From the ruler of this court.” Not, Mickey notes in a distant corner of his brain, from the king or queen of the court. From its ruler. Fiona?

“And what’s that?” Terry says.

“Leave,” Lip says. “Or be destroyed.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Terry laughs. It spreads across the rest of the Hunt, until it’s a cacophony of hooting and cackling. Lip’s face is still.

Terry stops, and his face hardens. The sounds of laughter fall silent instantly.

“And this,” Terry says, “is my message.” He gestures to Iggy, who pushes Ian ahead of him, then drops back behind his father. Lip’s eyes get wide, but only for a second, then his face hardens again. Terry yanks a jagged knife out from a sheath at his waist, and pushes it under Ian’s chin, forcing his head up. “Let us in. Or I’ll open up his throat and bleed him out like a stuck pig.”

Lip shrugs, unconcerned. “He’ll heal.”

Mickey, staring at Ian, can see him swallow nervously.

Terry grins wide. “We both know that’s not true.” He jams the knife in a little harder, and Mickey can see the blood welling up. He closes his eyes. Overhead, in the silence, he can hear a bird taking flight, its wings beating quietly.

“Terry!” A woman’s voice, high and angry. Mickey’s eyes snap open. Fiona is standing behind Lip now, still in her green dress, but with light armor over it, and drawn bow in her hands, arrow nocked and ready to fly. “You make one more move and I swear—”

He chuckles. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh yeah?” she says. “Try me.”

Terry opens his mouth to say something, and then stops, his face blank and shocked. Mickey can’t see why, until the blood starts to trickle out of the king’s mouth. His hand wavers, and he drops the blade he has against Ian’s throat, and falls to his knees.

Iggy is behind him, a long knife in his hand, dripping blood. His face is hard, and Mickey can’t understand what’s happening.

There are more and more birds in the air now, black ones, forming a cloud overhead. The rustle of their wings is the only sound, growing into a hiss like the sea. They’re swarming and swooping over the host of the Unseelie, as someone begins to make their way to the front.

The creatures around her draw back, murmuring and afraid, and then she’s standing before them, pale and stern and dressed all in black.

His sister.

“Mandy?” Mickey whispers, but she doesn’t turn or seem to hear him. She just keeps walking toward Terry, her stride slow and purposeful.

There’s two women walking behind her, wearing the same black, like a uniform. One is small and golden haired, and her hands are empty. The other is tall, thin-faced and red-lipped. She’s holding a sword in a black and silver sheath balanced over her shoulder, and as they get closer to the fallen king, she smiles.

Mandy stops, with Terry kneeling at her feet, and looks down at him. Her face is cold.

“Father,” she says.

He stares up at her in shock, trying to say something, but nothing makes it out. His teeth are blood-stained.

The tall woman offers Mandy the hilt of the sword, and Mandy draws it in one smooth motion.

“Iggy,” she says. He drops the dripping knife, and kicks Terry once in the back, hard, so he’s lying on the ground with his neck exposed. Mandy raises the sword, and brings it down in one strong, steady blow.

It must be sharp, because Terry’s head comes off as clean as a mushroom top. His blood splatters across Mandy’s face. She bares her teeth and wipes at it with the back of her hand. It smears, but doesn’t wipe off.

She raises the bloodstained sword to the Wild Hunt, half salute, half threat. There’s an uneasy stir, then one cry goes up, and another. Screams of joy at the bloodshed, at the strength of their new leader.

After a second, Mickey raises a shaking fist and joins in with a yell. Mandy turns just a little, and their eyes meet. Her mouth crooks in a half smile, and his heart soars at the sight of it. His sister, returned and triumphant, her own loyal court at her back. It’s unimaginable, beyond any of his wildest hopes.

Then Mandy turns to face the hill, where Lip and Fiona are still standing, weapons drawn. The army behind her falls silent.

“My father broke our ancient treaties,” Mandy says, and her voice carries easily. “When I challenged his decision, he betrayed me, left me to die. I stand before you now to offer peace.” She smiles again. “Balance, not dominion, is the natural state between us. And that’s what I would have. For the sake of my people, and yours.”

Fiona lowers her bow. “I’m—not the queen of this court. I have no power to agree—”

Mandy laughs, the sound low and shocking in the silence. Lip and Fiona look taken aback.

“What’s is going to take?” she says. “What kind of fire would have to be lit under your ass to make you get up and take control of what’s rightfully yours?”

“Excuse me?” Fiona bites out.

“My father shamed me in every way imaginable,” Mandy says. “And then he left me to die. No king, no leader, would have done the things he has. A ruler in name only is a curse, and the people he leads will be cursed.” Then she nods in Ian’s direction. “Frank tried to kill him, you know. I saw it, with my own eyes.”

Lip steps forward. “How is that possible?” he challenges.

Mandy smiles and glances over her shoulder at the woman serving as her squire. “I have the power to travel unseen, and in more forms than you would imagine. I saw him walking with Frank, and I saw Frank attack him, unprovoked, and leave him unconscious.”

She turns to Ian. “Didn’t he?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Ian says, haltingly. “I still can’t remember. But it was someone from the court. That much I know for sure.”

Mandy nods, and looks at Fiona expectantly. “Is this the power your court can provide? Is this the protection you offer your family? When I was a child, the golden grove stood for more than that.”

The look on Fiona’s face is grim. She slides the arrow back into her quiver, slings the bow over her shoulder, and yells “FRANK!” Mickey winces. It’s . . . loud. The flock of birds that had perched on the branches at the edge of the forest startle and take flight.

And after a few silent moments, he slowly slinks out of the hill, the hangdog king of the Seelie Court.

“Frank,” Fiona says. “Is it true?”

He mumbles something unintelligible into his chest.

“What was that?” Fiona demands.

“He’s an abomination,” Frank says, and now he’s loud and brash and confident. “And I won’t have him in my court.”

“Oh yeah?” Lip says. “Well, guess what. It’s not your court. It’s Monica’s. Where is she?”

“What are you talking about?” Frank says. “She’s—well, she’s—”

“Gone?” Fiona says.

Frank looks around shiftily. “Well, in a time of war, enemies at the gate . . .”

“The only enemy I see here is you, Frank,” says Fiona. She’s glowing with rage, and it’s a sight to behold. She draws herself up, and unslings the bow again. “You should go now.”

“What are you talking about, Fi?” says Frank. “You’re going to take the word of this mud-mouthed goblin bitch over your own father? What kind of daughter—”

Mandy’s squire steps forward. “Watch your tongue, little man,” she says, her voice sharp with an accent Mickey’s never heard. “In the North, we do not recognize your little island squabbles, and your crown is a toy for our children to cut their teeth on.” She raises her left hand, the one not holding Mandy’s sword, and it’s crackling with thin red flames. “So be careful how you speak of those who are dear to me.”

Frank blinks and takes a step back. “Fiona,” he says again, whining. “Please—”

Fiona sets an arrow to the string and draws it back. Lip lifts his sword. “Go,” she says. “I’m not saying it again, Frank.”

Mandy grins, showing too many teeth. “If you run, maybe the Hunt won’t catch you.” She gestures behind her, and a few of the wargs surge forward, snapping their jaws and growling. Spit goes flying—they haven’t eaten yet today. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”

Frank takes a few uncertain steps back, looking around desperately from person to person, and seeing only hard faces on every side. Then, with one more glance at the slavering creatures in front of him, he turns, and takes off running for the woods on the far side of the hill. At Mandy’s nod, the wargs yelp joyfully, and take off after him.

Mandy laughs, and it’s the same laugh Mickey remembers: wild with joy, and wicked with mischief.

Then she turns to look at Fiona, who’s watching Frank run with a look of dawning joy and relief.

Fiona lowers her bow, breathing hard, smiling. Her eyes meet Mandy’s, and she offers the Unseelie queen a cautious nod. Mandy returns it, with that same crooked smile. Then she raises a hand, and signals the rest of the Hunt back to the forest. But Mickey stands still, watching as Iggy slices through Ian’s bonds, and Fiona and Lip run to embrace him.

Mandy is standing in front of him, and he blinks at her. She’s the same, somehow, as when he last saw her. But different, too. The way she holds her head. The confident, happy curve of her smile.

“C’mon, Mickey,” she says, holding her hand out to him. “We’re going home.”

 

Home is—home. He’s never been there without the shadow of his father lying heavy over everything, a dormant threat around ever corner. It feels empty, somehow. Like a drained wound.

Mickey has rooms, decorated and grand, but he goes back where he always slept: a narrow stone cell off the barracks where the lesser creatures of the hunt sleep. The rocky ceiling is barely two feet above his face when he lies down. It’s—safe.

Every part of him aches. His father may be dead, but the damage he inflicted didn’t die with him. It’ll heal. In time. Always has before.

He closes his eyes, his mind lingering on the last glimpse he caught of Ian, gathered up in the arms of his siblings, his head bent down. Not looking at Mickey. Probably glad he’ll never have to lay eyes on Mickey again. If Ian ever remembers him, thinks about him again, it’ll be as a backstabber, a traitor. And really, what else was he?

A failure. He failed to serve his father, and when he went turncoat, he failed to protect Ian. It was Mandy who’d saved him in the end. Saved them both.

Mickey stays there for a long while, healing in the quiet dark, and lets his mind wander. He dreams. He sees the stars again, in far southern skies, warm air, warm water, gentle waves.

Some time later, days or weeks—he’s not hungry yet, so probably days—he hears Iggy outside.

“You in there?” he says.

Mickey doesn’t answer but there’s nothing hiding him, so he assumes Iggy was only asking to be polite. Doesn’t seem to be working, since Iggy keeps going, even though Mickey didn’t reply. “Mandy wants to see you.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey says. His voice is croaky. “Then her highness can come down and get me herself.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Iggy says. “C’mon, don’t make me play messenger.” Mickey says nothing. There’s nothing else to say. If Mandy wants him out, she’s gonna have to drag him. “I told her we should just let you hide under here and lick your wounds for a few more weeks, but she says she needs you.”

“Horseshit,” Mickey says. _Licking his wounds_ stings a little, but on the other hand, it isn’t exactly inaccurate. “She’s got you, got those crazy women from up north. The Hunt’s behind her. What else does she need?”

“My lieutenant,” Mandy says.

Mickey sighs, and rolls over, then climbs out of the cell and stands in front of her. “I was never that for him. For anyone.”

“No,” she says. “But you could be. For me. Do you want to?”

Mickey bites his lip, looks down at the ground. “What do you need one for? Thought you just made peace with all our enemies or something.” He darts a look up at her.

Mandy grins, wide and feral. “For now.” She shrugs. Her cloak has black feathers here and there, and they catch the dim light in the stone chamber, shining. “Anyway, the Seelie Court has never been our only enemy. Just the closest.” She reaches out slowly, and he doesn’t pull away from her touch as she lays a gentle hand on his arm. “I need you, Mickey. By my side.”

He swallows thickly. “Don’t think you do,” he says. “Seem to have done all right without me so far.”

Mandy pulls away, with hurt on her face.

“Mandy, no,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve done—you’ve done real good. I’m . . .” He pauses, takes a deep breath. Looks her in the eye. “I’m proud of you, Mandy. You saved us. Saved yourself, too. It’s—it’s good. But I haven’t earned that place at your side. All right? Do you know what I’m saying?”

She gives him a small, rueful smile. “I don’t know why I was so sure you were going to say that,” she says. “But I thought I could talk you into it, anyway.”

“You’re a pretty good talker,” Mickey agrees.

“But not good enough, I guess,” she says. Then she looks at him searchingly. “Are you sure, Mick?” she says.

“Yeah.” His mouth is dry. It’s unheard of, turning down something like this. Then again, in his father’s court, it hadn’t usually been a request.

“Why?” she asks. She doesn’t seem annoyed or angry. Just confused.

He thinks about it for a few seconds. “I’m tired,” he says at last. It’s not quite right. Tired is a passing thing. He feels—weary. The fire inside his stomach, the hunger for blood and death, it’s gone. Quenched, like the waters of that endless glowing lake under the Seelie Court rose up inside him and put it out. Weak, his father would have said. Spineless.

_Tired_ is the best he can do, right now.

He finally looks up to meet Mandy’s eyes. She staring at him like if she looks hard enough, she’ll be able to see inside him. Find that little shard of steel and glass imbedded inside him and pry it out with her teeth.

He almost wishes she could.

Finally she nods, releasing him from her gaze. Still no anger on her face, somehow.

“Can I go back to sleep now?” he says. One last piece of bait, seeing if she’ll rise, show her true colors now that she’s in power.

Mandy turns to go. “If you want,” she says. “But there’s someone waiting for you outside.”

“Outside?” Mickey says. “What are you—who—Mandy? Mandy!” But she’s gone.

Iggy’s still standing there, looking at him doubtfully. “You sure about this, Mick? Sure you trust him?”

“Who?” Mickey demands again. “Who the fuck are you—”

Iggy follows Mandy out, shaking his head. “Be careful, that’s all,” he says as he goes.

They’re gone, and Mickey’s left standing in the middle of the dark stone cell, alone, his heart pounding.

“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

If it is—If it’s him—He’s probably here to demand retribution for Mickey’s betrayal. But if so, it’s Mandy he should be waiting for, not . . .

Mickey realizes he’s pacing, and forces himself to stop. Takes a few deep breaths.

Either it’s Ian or it’s not, and Mickey going outside isn’t going to change anything. So, he goes.

From the outside, the entrance to the Unseelie Court is a bleak dell on the side of a steep, craggy mountain. It’s quiet. The only sound for miles is falling water, from a narrow, hidden waterfall. Mickey’s never been sure, but he thinks it might have been his mother’s place, once.

Ian is sitting on the ground, leaning with his back against a moss-covered slab of gray rock. If the court had a doorstep, he’d be sitting right on it.

Mickey hangs back in the shadows of the trees for a few moments, just watching. Ian’s face is relaxed, peaceful. He looks healthier and more awake than Mickey can ever remember seeing him before. The only thing that gives away his discomfort is the way his long fingers are knotted together nervously in his lap. He’s unarmed. Seems stupid reckless.

But at least it means Ian isn’t here to kill him. Probably. Unless he’s going to try to strangle him or something.

Mickey lets out a nervous breath and steps forward, out of the trees. Ian sits up straight, staring at him. “Mickey,” he says. And then he stops. His face is open and eager. Not what Mickey had been expecting. “Uh, your sister—I mean, your queen. She wouldn’t let me in. Said it was just between the two of us, not the courts.”

“Guess so,” Mickey says.

They stare at each other for a second, awkwardly.

“So, uh, what do you want?” Mickey says at last. He winces on the inside, hearing the words come out of his mouth. But it’s done now.

Ian blinks up at him. “I—have a question,” he says. “It’s . . . Can we go somewhere? Somewhere else?” He gestures at the tree above him, where a raven is perched, staring down at them with beady, interested eyes.

“Right,” Mickey mutters. A question. That can’t be good. “C’mon, come with me.” Ian stands up, and follows him up the mountain a little way, ducking through a grove of yew trees. The sound of the water is getting louder now.

They come out of the cover of the trees right near the head of the waterfall. It’s actually a little quieter right there, far from the pool where the water hits, but the surrounding noise is enough to keep anyone from hearing them.

Mickey turns to face Ian. “So?” he says. “What’s your question?” The first one that comes to mind is _why did you lie?_ and they all get worse from there.

Ian stares at him. “I was wondering if—if you know where my sword is. Since you found me and everything. Maybe it was . . . somewhere nearby? If you could show me—”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I—yeah. I know where. Should I—do you want to go now, or . . . ?”

Ian swallows. His voice comes out a little strange. “Yeah,” he says. “If you don’t mind. That would be great. They, uh—” He smiles. “They won’t give me a new one. Not unless I can prove that I can’t find the old one first. So I said I would try.”

“Typical,” Mickey says. “Armorers never want to just do their jobs, huh?”

“Yep,” Ian says, and grins at him. “You’d think they don’t like making new swords or something.” Now they’re just standing there, smiling at each other like a pair of idiots.

Mickey shakes himself. “It’s, uh, it’s a couple of miles away. Should we—”

“Good thing we can both run now, isn’t it?” Ian says with another grin, and Mickey can’t help but return it.

“Think you can outrun me?” he says. “I was part of the Hunt, you know.”

“Was?” Ian says, startled, and a little . . . hopeful? Mickey blinks at him, then shakes his head and takes off running.

“Get a move on, Seelie slug!” he calls over his shoulder, and he can hear Ian’s laugh as he starts running behind him.

 

The clearing is quiet and sunny, more Ian’s kind of place than Mickey’s. They stand together over the patch of scrub and grasses where Mickey had found him. It’s strange to think that Ian’s bones could be bleaching here right now. Mickey shivers. There’s a cold breeze slipping through the grass.

After a silent moment, Mickey leans down, rooting in the dirt and underbrush to find the weapon he’d concealed. He clears away the dried mud, and with it, the spell that had kept it hidden. His fingers brush the blade, and it burns coldly against his skin. He pulls his hand away, and looks up at Ian. “Well?” he says.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Nice work.” Then he sits down, leaning on his heels, and grasps the hilt. He wiggles it back and forth to loosen it from the earth, then draws it up and out in one smooth movement.

The dirt and grass on the blade burn away in one bright flash, and the steel and glass gleam in front of Mickey’s eyes.

He shuts them.

“Uh, I—” Ian says. “This wasn’t what I—” He swears softly, under his breath. “This wasn’t actually what I wanted to ask.”

Mickey squints his eyes open, looking at Ian with doubt as he stands up and leans the sword against a tree, then turns back to face him.

“Really?” Mickey says. “Then you wanna tell me why you dragged us all the way out here?”

Ian nods. “I’ve been . . . thinking,” he says. Mickey raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. “About leaving.”

Of course. He’s here, but just to say good-bye. No wonder he needed the sword back.

“About traveling,” Ian adds. His eyes are fixed on Mickey as he says the last part, very fast and quiet. “I thought you might want to come with me.”

Mickey’s breath catches, and he jerks his head up. Ian’s looking at him, and Mickey’s fear and uncertainty is mirrored back at him on Ian’s face.

“Huh?” is the best that Mickey can manage.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says hurriedly. “This was—I’m sorry.” He’s backing away. Before Mickey can think what he’s doing, he reaches out and grabs Ian’s wrist to stop him.

“Hang on,” he says. “Just wait a second. I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Ian looks at the ground, then at Mickey’s fingers around his wrist. He twists away gently—but then reaches out and takes Mickey’s hand in his own, barely touching. Like he’s scared.

“Do you remember?” Ian says softly. “What we talked about, that night? Under the hill?”

Mickey nods. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, with his body. Should he pull away? Pull Ian closer?

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Ian says. “All of that. And I want to go there. The place I dreamed about. With, um. With you. If you want.”

“You what?” Mickey says. “Are you—is this some kind of joke?”

“No,” Ian says. “No!” He looks taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

Mickey squints at him uncertainly. “I lied to you, Ian. Did you forget that somehow? That I was taking you to your enemy? My father? Any of this ringing a bell?”

He doesn’t know what response he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not laughter. Ian’s chuckling, like Mickey’s just told him some kind of amazing joke.

“What?” Mickey demands. “I don’t see what’s so _fucking_ funny about any of that, Ian!”

Ian reaches up to touch his face. Mickey startles back, and Ian drops his hand again. But he’s still smiling broadly.

“Mickey,” he says. “With enemies like you, who needs friends?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Mickey snaps.

The look on Ian’s face is impossibly tender.

“All you had to do,” he says, “was leave me lying in the dirt where you found me. We both know, I’d have been dead that night.”

“Wasn’t for you,” Mickey says. He’s breathing too fast, and he doesn’t know why. “You weren’t worth anything to me dead.”

“That’s true,” Ian agrees. “But you didn’t need me healthy, either. Walking would have been enough. Hell, just breathing would have done it. And you didn’t have any reason to hide yourself from a prisoner.” He smiles again, and this time when his fingers touch Mickey’s cheek, Mickey doesn’t pull away. “Show me,” Ian says.

Mickey closes his eyes, and feels himself shifting, almost against his will—the itch of his skin and the slime, the mouthful of teeth. A creature. A monster to frighten children.

Ian’s still touching his face, and when Mickey dares to open his eyes, all he sees is Ian smiling. “There you are,” he says. “Still you.” He leans forward, and presses a kiss to Mickey’s forehead. Then one to his cheek. And one, soft and sweet, on his lips.

Mickey swallows and shifts back in one fast rush. Then he reaches out and pulls Ian close to him, wraps his arms around his waist. Kisses him back, hard, on the mouth. Ian’s mouth opening under his, hot and slick. Mickey’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, gripping him hard.

A surge goes through Ian’s whole body, and it feels like a spark jumps between them. Mickey pulls away, startled.

Ian stares at him. He licks his lips, looking shaky and confused. Mickey grabs one of Ian’s hands, the same hot spark leaping between them again, and raises it up.

There’s a white glow around Ian's fingers. Seelie white.

“How—” Ian starts. Mickey shrugs.

“Happens that way sometimes,” he says. “Can’t ever say when it’s going to start, or why. Just does.”

“No!” Ian says, giddy. “It's you! Something you did!” Mickey raises his hands in mock surrender.

“No one to blame but yourself,” he says. “You gonna test it out, or what?”

Ian looks at him, his mouth half open, his face elated.

“What should I do?” he says.

Mickey nods at the sword leaning against the tree, and Ian stretches out a hand toward it. The blade flares back to life, a white flame that makes Mickey blink in surprise. Ian is strong.

Ian walks to the tree, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the sword and raising it in front of him. It lights his face from below, making him look cold and terrible for a moment. Then he turns back to Mickey, and the illusion is shattered. Just Ian, bright and beautiful.

“It’s mine,” he says, wonderingly.

Mickey give him a half smile. “What are you going to do with it?”

Ian grins. “Think you wanna help me find out?” he asks, and reaches his hand out to Mickey.

“Fuck it,” Mickey says. He can’t seem to wipe the stupid smile off his face. “Guess I got nothing better to do, huh?” And he takes Ian’s hand.


End file.
